#WE ONCE CHEERED WHEN WE GOT PLASTIC STRAWS AT A RESTAURANT ITS BEEN SO LONG

[kirasuki]

I fucking hate paper straws it takes all the joy out of trying to drink a capri sun why is the straw paper when the drinks little container is plastic and the straw is glued on in a PLASTIC fucking holder. STRAW IS BROKEN EVEN BEFORE I GET TO DRINK IT AND NOW I GOT CAPRI SUN ON NY LAP AND HAD TO OPEN IT WITH A FUCKING KNIFE

[btsybrkr]

Here’s A List Of Things I Hate

I've reached something of a mental block recently when it comes to writing. I think it's because, despite sometimes coming off like I'm mocking things or just being a general smart-arse, I usually write about things I genuinely love. I love The Apprentice. I love Come Dine With Me. I love the idea that the Saturday night schedule, currently occupied on ITV1 by The Masked Singer - a horrifying cross between The Voice and a recurring nightmare I had between the ages of 6 and 8 - might one day be livened up by a post-apocalyptic The X Factor-style talent show in which we choose the next Prime Minister from a roster of Average Joe’s that just feel like giving it a bash.

I usually have lots to say about things I love, but recently, for some reason, I’m struggling to even think of anything that I love enough to write about. Maybe I’m being dragged down by the fact that this January alone seemed to last three long months, or perhaps because January itself included ‘Blue Monday’, the so-called ‘most miserable day of the year’. Maybe it's neither of things, maybe I’m just suffering from a bad case of The Realisation That We And Everything That We Do Are All, In The End, Meaningless, And That Every Day, We Are Collectively Hurtling Closer And Closer Towards The Endless Void And There Is Nothing That Any Of Us Can Do To Stop It. There's probably a snappier name for that, but you know what I mean. In any case, I’m just finding it much easier to think about things I hate recently.

Anyway, what do we do with these feelings of negativity to get rid of them once and for all? We express them. So, for anyone willing to read it, here’s a list of things I hate.

Stephen Mulhern

ITV mainstay Stephen Mulhern arguably belongs on television - not for any positive reason, just because it’s only the barrier of television between him and the viewer that allows him to appear as a cheerful friendly presence, rather than an insufferable know-it-all prick, whose repeated condescending glances to the camera during interviews with rejected Britain’s Got Talent contestants just wouldn’t fly in real life. I mean, really, imagine you were having a conversation with someone, and they reacted to something you said by looking off into the distance, à la Fleabag, with an expression that quite clearly reads “This person is an idiot!! Laugh, everyone!! Laugh at the idiot!!” You know what, Stephen? You’re the idiot. But I won’t laugh at you, because then you might think that you’re funny, and I’m just not having that.

Coleslaw

I saw a tweet years ago that said “what was the first person to milk a cow thinking?”, and honestly, it raises a very good question. I can only imagine that there was some perverted ulterior motives at play, for someone to not only milk the cow’s udders in the first place, but then to drink it, at a time when that just wasn’t done. They must have been a pretty nefarious character, it almost doesn’t bear thinking about. Instead, I’d like to question the motives of the even dodgier character who first looked at grated carrots, cabbage and onions, and thought ‘You know what might really tie these bland individual tastes together? Mayonnaise. A fuckload of it.’

You know what, though? It's not the existence of coleslaw that confuses me the most about it - it's the popularity of it. It has pride of place on the table at every family buffet, it’s disappointingly included in otherwise-appealing wraps in the Boots meal deal fridge, and it's an option on the menu in a shocking majority of takeaways, despite the fact that nobody has ever emerged, staggering and bleary-eyed from Walkabout at 3:30am and thought ‘I could absolutely murder some coleslaw’. Most annoying of all is the way some restaurants chuck a bit of paprika in the mix and use it as an excuse to rename it ‘POW POW GROOVY SLAW’, or something equally ridiculous. Why are we trying to sex up a bowl of vegetables covered in mayonnaise? I can't think of anything less sexy, and I don't particularly want to try.

Let's face it, coleslaw has long overstayed its welcome. It's the last stubborn hanger-on from the pages of stomach-churning 1970s dinner party cookbooks (probably found somewhere between the recipes for spinach and tuna pie and a boiled, unglazed joint of ham suspended in gelatine), and it's time we admitted that and stage a renaissance for the real king of the veg/mayo combo. Rise, Sir Potato Salad - your rule has begun.

Facebook

I recently deleted Facebook off my phone, and immediately noticed an improvement in the overall quality of my life. I promise I don’t mean this in the typical ‘phone bad, book good’ way that fake-’woke’ holier-than-thou characters preach about (usually on Facebook itself, ironically). I still happily waste away hours of my life on Twitter, and Instagram, the latter of which arguably has the most negative influence on my brain out of all the social networks. The thing with Facebook is that it doesn’t necessarily have a negative influence on my brain, so much as it has no influence on any part of me whatsoever. Facebook is a vacuum. It's completely, entirely pointless. In fact, it’s where ‘point’ itself goes to die.

Considering there’s probably no two Facebook users out there with the exact same friends list, I'm willing to bet that everybody’s News Feed looks eerily similar. Every scroll through is the same - a former workmate announcing a pregnancy, someone you forgot about from school sharing a vague, ‘deep’ quote about their hurt feelings, an elderly relative you didn't realise was racist until literally right now, when they began sharing posts from a page eloquently titled ‘MUSLIMS!! it is TIME to go HOME so we can have BRITAIN BACK’, or something along those lines. If you ever have nothing better to do - although, I'm sure there is always something, anything, better to do - just set a timer, open up Facebook, and see how long it takes before you come across a single thing that genuinely resonates with you in any positive way at all. I just redownloaded Facebook to try it for myself, and it took me 46 minutes.

Sound like a lie? Well, to be fair, it is. But there's more truth in that than almost anything you'll see on Facebook.

Those Slush Puppy Straws With Tiny Spoons On The End

Plastic straws are on their way out, and quite rightly. The Sea Turtle Conservancy estimate that around half the world’s sea turtles have ingested plastic, and straws are believed to have accounted for a lot of that. With everything you read or learn about the effect of straws on the environment, it's surprising that it's taken this long for us to do something about it.

With that said, it's not just the turtles that are benefitting from the rise of the paper straw - I'm pretty pleased about it as well. Why? Because using paper instead of plastic might mean that we stop manufacturing those evil straws with tiny spoons on the end of them.

Yes, evil. How many times have you been enjoying a Slush Puppy on a hot summer’s day, only to realise you can't get to the bits at the bottom of the cup, because your straw inexplicably has a spoon on the end of it. What's that for? A Slush Puppy is a drink, and spoons are for eating things with. “It's for eating the delicious bits of vaguely-flavoured ice after you've sucked up all the syrup”, you might say, but then why? Mojitos are made with crushed ice, but you wouldn't go up to the barman and go "excuse me, mate, you forgot to give me a spoon so I could eat all these delicious bits of vaguely-minty ice", would you?

Anyway, you can't suck up all the syrup in the first place when the bottom of your straw just isn't a straw. This a problem we usually solve by holding the cup above our mouths and giving the bottom of the cup a gentle tap, usually sending the rest of it falling out of the cup and all over your face, shirt, anywhere but your mouth, faster than you can say “I can't believe I’m 23 years old and writing an angry blog about straws with tiny spoons on the end”. Another solution we often resort to is turning the straw upside down, which, in my experience, always leads to cutting the roof of your mouth on the tiny spoon that you were never going to use in the first place. No wonder it took us so long to show a bit of sympathy for the turtles - we've been ignoring our own straw-related injuries for years, probably just because we think it makes us look hard.

As far as I'm concerned, spoons are for food, and straws are for liquids. That's why, whenever I order soup in a café, I always ask for a straw. Yes, I get looks from the other customers, but I'm sure they aren't looks of amusement or confusion - everyone else just wishes they'd thought of it first.

Ladybirds

Ladybirds aren't cute. They are not ‘nice’ bugs. They are beetles, in a quirky disguise, who can also fly. With all that in mind, why are we taught to like them? Why do people spot one land on your clothes, or in your hair, and cheerfully announce “oh, there’s a ladybird on you!”, as if you’ve somehow been chosen by the ladybird and should feel honoured. Get it off me now, because I don’t know what it’s going to do! Don’t tell me that it’s ‘harmless’ and that I’m ‘overreacting’. We thought that cigarettes were ‘harmless’ before the mid-60s, cheerfully puffing our way through life, with one in each hand at any given moment, as we watched our darling babies speak their first words, which were usually something along the lines of “alright, mate, 20 Sterling Dual, please” - but then we learned. We learned that they weren’t as harmless as we first thought. And believe me when I tell you that, one day, we’ll reach the same conclusion about ladybirds. Just as soon as we find out exactly what they’re planning.

In fact, where have they gone? I haven’t seen one for a good while. Surely, they’re holed up in a specially designed lair somewhere, millions of them, carefully planning their next move in their efforts to overthrow the human race. Planning and watching. We may not be able to see them, but I’m willing to bet they have eyes on us. You know when you’re alone and you get the feeling there’s something or someone else present? It’s ladybirds. I’m sure of it. We need to watch our backs.

I’m not really sure where my fear of ladybirds has come from. Perhaps it’s down to a dream I’ve been having at least three times a year since I was a teenager, in which I’m leaving my Nan’s house and spot a ladybird the size of a Golden Retriever out in the alleyway, just sitting there, still and silent. I run around the corner to one of my friend’s houses, to warn him of the arrival of our ladybird overlords, but the entire front of his house is covered in millions of the things. I shout his name, up at an open window, and he replies that he’s coming down to open the door to me, but when he does, it isn’t him at all - it’s just a 6ft tall ladybird. I usually wake up in a cold sweat at that point, but when I try to go back to sleep, I can feel them crawling all over me.

I know I sound insane, but I promise you, I’m not - I just don't trust them, and I think that’s understandable.

Hate

If there's one thing I hate more than all the above, it's the very concept of hate itself. I don't just mean in a political or universal sense - although, I do agree the world might be a far better place if we all just hated each other a little bit less - hate has an effect on all our personal lives, too.

I'm really trying to make the most of my early twenties, and that means conserving what little energy I have left after I'm done working, drinking, and crying - just the usual daily activities that we all partake in - to be a little more productive. I can't be using that energy up on hate. In fact, in a scientific study that I've literally just made up, it was found that feeling hatred for even one fifth of a second uses up three times as much mental and physical energy as smiling at sixteen angry strangers, half of which are making fists at you. You can't argue with those sorts of statistics.

Anyway, I'm hoping to return to talking about things that make me feel a little more positive next time, because, besides anything, it's just nice to be nice, isn't it?

Not to Stephen Mulhern, though. He needs to learn his lesson.

If you like seeing me talking shit, but would rather it wasn't so bloody long, you can follow me on twitter here.

[sunbrights]

fic: somewhere surely lived (1/14)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: fuyuhiko & peko are the main POV characters, and kuzupeko is the main endgame ship, but this sumbitch is a smorgasborg of characters and ships. there are 6 additional secondary ships that'll be ~special surprises~. side pairings won't be tagged, but the "relationship of the day" character will. rating: e (not all chapters have smut, but a fair number of them do) summary: Hope's Peak is not just a dating program; it's a guarantee. With the right compatible partner, the benefits are endless: boosted life expectancy, improved self-esteem, increased productivity, new opportunities, better overall work and life satisfaction. For society's elite, Hope's Peak makes finding that partner straightforward, if not easy.

It provides an Ultimate Match-- provided the participants are willing to go through its paces.

(AU based on the Black Mirror episode, "Hang the DJ.")

notes: Happy Valentine's week, friends! This fic is (almost) done and will (hopefully) be updated 3x a week between now and White Day (3/14) as a special lovey-dovey season gift from me to you!

read on AO3

2 WEEKS

“What?” she says. “That can’t be right. That’s barely any time at all.”

He taps the round, black face of his device again, but the number doesn’t change. Two weeks.

The server brings by pre-selected menu choices: poached salmon for him and parmesan risotto for her. He knew going in that the system was designed to automate as much as possible. (“Optimizing everyday decisions allows participants to focus their energy on developing their relationships,” his device had told him, after he booted it up the first time.) That doesn’t stop it from being fucking weird, having a plate slid in front of him without preamble.

He can’t find room to be pissed about it, though. The fish is cooked perfectly, exactly to his tastes. He can’t say he wouldn’t have picked it himself, if he’d been given the option; it just might’ve taken him longer to get there.

The girl is still focused on her device. She has it cupped in one hand, and is swiping through the different menu options. She’s pretty, he guesses; she has a narrow face and dark eyes, but also a short bob haircut that keeps her from looking too severe. He’s never really thought much about red hair on women... but apparently the system didn’t think much of it, either, if this is all the time it gave them.

“Usami,” she says, and it lights up to acknowledge her, “is it really only two weeks?”

“That’s right!”

“What the fuck are we supposed to do with that?” he snaps around his mouthful. The girl gives him a sour look.

“I’m sorry,” his device chirps from his elbow, “that question is too broad. Being specific helps me understand!”

“I think what he means,” she says, every word dripping with so much pointed disapproval that it makes him roll his eyes, “is why is it only two weeks?”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“... Right.” She gives up, apparently; she sighs, and lets her wrist hang. He takes another bite.

“It’s rude to start eating before everyone else at the table, you know,” she tells him.

“You’ve got your food,” he says.

“That’s not the point! It’s…” She sighs again, and shoves the device back into her purse. “Nevermind. Let’s just start over, okay? I want to make the most of this. Two weeks or not.”

The main theme of all the literature surrounding Hope’s Peak had been that the system works if you let it. Nothing is superfluous, even if it seems like it is. Everything happens for a reason.

He swallows his bite, and leans back in the booth.

“... Fine.”

*

Mahiru is an amateur photographer following in her mother’s footsteps. It’s her first time in the system, too, and she’s about as sold on it as he is— which is to say, not quite. She offers him some of her risotto, and laughs when he refuses. “Big no to cheese, then,” she says, mixing the breadcrumbs into the rice. “Heard that one loud and clear.”

There’s a little, driverless cart waiting for them outside the restaurant when they’re finished. It pings both their devices when they get in, sets a navigation on its own, and takes them out into the sprawling grounds around the central hub.

They ride in silence, cold winter air whipping in from under the plastic shields. He puts his feet on the dash, and she sighs, loud enough that it barely even counts as passive-aggressive. He doesn’t put them back down.

The route delivers them to an isolated cottage on the western side of the grounds. It’s on the small side, just a main living area separated from what he assumes is a bedroom by a half-divider. There’s a nook of a kitchen tucked into the southeastern corner, and an automated fireplace in the middle. It’s clean and nicely furnished, inviting while still managing to stay practical.

Mahiru turns the corner into the bedroom. She stops short. “... Oh.”

He understands when he gets there. There’s only a single bed, made up in plush pillows and fluffy blankets. The bathroom hangs off the northern wall, separated by wide panes of lightly frosted glass.

The implication isn’t exactly fucking subtle.

“... I guess it’s understandable,” she says. “I mean, we are meant to be in a relationship. It’s just a little...”

“For two weeks?” he says. “Fuck that.” He plucks the squat extra blanket off the end of the bed and steps back down into the main living area. “Take it. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t you know any other words?” she complains. “If you talk like that all the time, people are going to assume you have a bad attitude.”

“Let people think whatever they want,” he answers. “I don’t give a shit.”

“So you do have a bad attitude, is what you’re saying.”

He turns on his heel. “What difference does it make to you? Do you want to share the bed?”

She flushes, and glares at her feet. “Of- Of course not! Not… Not right away, at least. I appreciate you being a gentleman about it, but you could try actually acting like a gentleman.”

“It’s only two weeks,” he tells her. He pulls out the back cushions of the couch and lines them up neatly behind it. “Don’t get so worked up over it.”

That shuts her up. She watches him make up the rest of it, her arms folded over her stomach. “You know,” she says, once he’s sat down, “you could try being a little more positive.”

“Whatever.” He kicks the decorative throw pillows off the end of the couch so that he can pull his legs up on it. Even for him, it’s a tight fit. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

*

Two weeks, it turns out, is a long, long fucking time.

*

They argue, constantly. She hassles him about his manners, his posture, the way he holds his fork. They never agree on what to do or where to go or when, and she absolutely refuses to give any ground, ever. She’s fucking insufferable.

“You’re not my goddamn mother!” he shouts across the kitchen. “I don’t need you riding my ass all the time!”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you actually pulled yourself together for once, I wouldn’t have to!” He slams the mini-fridge shut, and she tosses her hands in the air. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re such a child, you know that?”

“Usami,” he barks at the counter.

The device lights up. “Yes, Fuyuhiko?”

“What are our options for ending a relationship?”

“Oh, that’s your solution?” Mahiru demands. “You want to run away instead of acknowledging that maybe, maybe you have some issues you should be working through?”

“The relationship will end when time is up!” the device responds, cheerful.

He ignores her, and focuses on it. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot, I know that. I mean before that.”

“All expiration dates are carefully calibrated in order to generate an accurate partner profile, which helps in selecting your Ultimate Match,” it answers. “Participants are not allowed to terminate a relationship before the expiration date has passed. Doing so would compromise the quality of the data provided to the system.”

He freezes. Across the room, so does Mahiru. “What?” she says.

“Ever?”

“That’s right!”

“We’re stuck here for another fucking week?”

“That’s right!”

It waits for more input. After it goes a few long, excruciatingly silent minutes without getting any, it dims into standby.

“Look,” Mahiru starts, and that’s how it always starts, her same bullshit speech about having an open mind and trusting the system and, if you really listen, letting her drive their whole fucking relationship. He can’t listen to it again.

“Don’t,” he snaps. He shoulders past her, and grabs his coat from the hook. “I need some goddamn air.”

*

Natsumi agrees to give him an out, on the condition that he brings her a smoothie and walks around the park with her. He does it, because if he spends one more second in that tiny-ass cottage, he’s going to lose his fucking mind, and no amount of Natsumi squeaking her straw in her plastic lid is going to measure up ever again.

Her advice is, “Have you had sex yet? You should have sex,” and he gulps down way, way too much of his coffee. He manages not to spit it all down his front, and it scalds the back of his throat instead.

“God— fucking dammit, Natsumi! Did you not listen to a word I said?”

“Yeah,” she drawls, “I listened to all of it. She tells you to pick up your shoes sometimes and you’re a little bitch about it, I get it. If it’s such a lost cause, you might as well get something out of it before time’s up.”

“I’m not gonna sleep with someone I hate!”

“Who cares about that? You said two weeks, right? I doubt the system was gunning for you guys to settle into gross domestic bliss anyway.” She slurps her smoothie. “Hatesex is a thing.”

“You’re fucking full of shit.”

“Be miserable, then! What else do you want me to say?”

He doesn’t have the chance to answer. There’s a shout behind them, and some girl skids past, nearly clipping Natsumi’s elbow. She fumbles her smoothie, and it sloshes purple all down her front.

“Hey!” she shrieks. “Watch where you’re going, bitch!”

“I’m sorry!” the girl shouts over her shoulder. She keeps running. “I’ve got a really important mission! No time to explain!”

He feels better after that.

*

“Yo, Usami,” he asks, when it’s just him in the cottage, two nights before the expiration. He sprawls out on the couch, and lets his head hang off the edge.

“Yes, Fuyuhiko?”

“What’s the fucking point of this?”

“The system evaluates your reactions to each of your relationships in order to build a complex—”

“No, I mean this. Me and her. Why put us together in the first place?”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

Could’ve seen that one coming.

She gets back not long after him. She walks right past him without looking at him, straight back into the kitchen. They’ve gone three days without saying a damn word to each other, and maybe that should feel like an improvement over the constant screaming, but it doesn’t.

It feels pointless.

He sits up on the couch. “Hey.” She barely even reacts, just tilts her head enough that he knows she heard him. “Can I kiss you?”

She looks then. She glares, right over the curve of her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t make me say it again.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” she snaps. “Are you seriously this petty?”

“No! That’s not it. Just—” He gestures at his device, and hopes that gets the message across. “I’m fucking trying here, okay?”

She turns her glare down at the device, and then back up at him. Her jaw works. “... Fine,” she says, and then holds up a finger before he can get a word in. “One time. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She drops onto the couch beside him, except that she’s still too far away for him to do anything. He has to scoot to close the distance, and that makes her even more tense, shoulders drawn up and spine rigid. She stares back at him with that same, resolute glare she always wears, only now her face is a little pink, high on her cheekbones. It’d be cute, maybe, on literally anyone else.

They sit in silence. He tries to psyche himself up.

“... Well?” she demands. “How- How long are you just going to sit there? If you lost your nerve, just admit it so I can at least—”

He mutters, “Fuck, shut up,” and crushes his mouth over hers.

And yeah, he was right all along: Natsumi is full of shit.

It’s a bad kiss, and no weeks-old flare of physical attraction is enough to save it. Technically speaking, it’s fine, and contrary to what he expected Mahiru doesn’t just sit there like a dead fish; she tries maybe more than him, cupping his face in her hands and tilting him into a more comfortable angle. There’s just nothing there. It’s a wet, uncomfortable mess of lips with someone he hates.

It only lasts a few seconds before she groans and pushes him off.

“That was terrible,” she says.

It’s the first and only time he’s ever agreed with her. She slides away from him, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, well. Now we know, huh? This whole thing was a fucking waste of time.”

She wraps her arms around her middle. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess it was.”

She stands up from the couch and goes to bed.

*

Two of the automated carts are sent out to pick them up on the last day. When the timer breaks five minutes, they separate into their individual rides, and wait for it to run out.

END