#all other forms of food-doctor are horseshit

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Dumb shit I learned from youtube shorts tonight: Brown rice contains noticeably more arsenic than white rice.

And people were using this fact to try and sound scary.

Except.

And my god please note the except.

That doesn't actually mean sweet fuckall in 1) how much arsenic is contained in EITHER rice.

AND ALSO IF IT FUCKING MATTERS IN THE LONG RUN.

If I may give you a crash course in fuckery: If someone is talking a big game about a food being BAD because "WELL IT HAS A BAD THING" but a quick google does not actually turn up any information that proves the "bad thing" is truly "bad"? That's grifters grifting.

Here's an abstract (the thing that tells you the bare bones of the study results) from a study:

Brown rice has been advocated for as a healthier alternative to white rice. However, the concentration of arsenic and other pesticide contaminants is greater in brown rice than in white. The potential health risks and benefits of consuming more brown rice than white rice remain unclear; thus, mainstream nutritional messaging should not advocate for brown rice over white rice. This mini-review aims to summarize the most salient concepts related to dietary arsenic exposure with emphasis on more recent findings and provide consumers with evidence of both risks and benefits of consuming more brown rice than white rice. Despite risk-benefit assessments being a challenging new frontier in nutrition, researchers should pursue an assessment to validate findings and solidify evidence. In the interim, consumers should be cognizant that the dose of arsenic exposure determines its toxicity, and brown rice contains a greater concentration of arsenic than white rice.

From info later in the article: Arsenic as an idea is bad. But arsenic is also environmental. It's literally fucking everywhere. Arsenic in food is a worldwide thing.

From other info in the article: Our testing on why brown rice is better or worse than any other rice has some serious fuckboy testing vibes, and any negatives can't be directly related to arsenic.

In cases like this, I tend to rely on the following incredibly casual metric to decide where I land: If this thing you're claiming is bad for all of us was actually bad for all of us, the science would show it. While there are fuckboy techniques in testing the advantages of brown rice versus others, if brown rice was causing people serious medical issues because the arsenic levels were bad in general, that would be very obvious from any level of review.

Even with the fuckboy test questions about brown rice, if the problem was that the level of arsenic was harming people, we would see it in the available testing.

To say "brown rice has arsenic, so it's bad" is bullshit. It's like saying "If you drink at all, your liver will fail."

[imbruedinfear-a]

@undeadrphub​ asked: ALL OF THEM FOR JAY

🍍  :    how comfortable is my muse in their body? how do they feel about their height,  weight,  strength,  and body type?  how important is being attractive to them? 

this man would kill to be taller in .0002 seconds if he could. he was bullied for his height, bullied for being severely underweight, bullied for feminine hips, for.. literally anything. he hates it all. as an adult, he’s managed to pull himself out of the underweight category, but it’s solely from muscle. he’s still incredibly thin and small, just as he’s always been. you can’t get him to be comfortable without an oversized hoodie to hide in. he vaguely cares about being attractive, but it’s more ‘i don’t want them to be embarrassed to be hanging out with someone as fucking ugly as i am’ than anything else. if he’s not working or going out with people, he won’t even think of trying to improve appearance.

🍅  :    how does my muse feel about plastic  /  cosmetic surgeries   &   procedures?  is it something they have done or would do?  do they mind if others do it? 

dislike. who the fuck cares about their appearance that much? granted, he’s had a nose job, but it was so he could still fucking breathe rather than cosmetics. he won’t dislike you as a person for it, but he’s going to instantly find you unappealing. it just bothers him for some reason.

🍏  :    how stable is my muse’s physical health?  do they go for regular or semi-regular checkups by a physician?  do they have any diagnosed illnesses and / or take any medication?  how often do they get sick?

stability whomst? he has two modes of health: sick once a year or sick every other week. it depends on how much food he’s been eating and whether or not he’s blown food money on beer. fuck doctors. his overall health is fucked. doctors cannot explain why he doesn’t have x problems and how he’s even still alive after all of the beatings he’s had, especially when it comes to the brain damage. he has seizures, sometimes an arm will stop working for a bit, sometimes he can’t hold anything, sometimes he’ll have a burst of amnesia. he’s a medical mystery to the point there are literal scientific articles on his case, and 98% of the time if he lands in the hospital for something they’ll just shrug it off. it’s gotten to the point he’ll break bones and still not go, because he learned how to fix that fucking problem himself when he was like 12.

🍎  :    how stable is my muse’s mental health?  have they been diagnosed with any mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they have any undiagnosed mental illnesses and  /  or conditions?  do they or should they attend therapy? 

:^) he’s gotten away with murder ( though it was self-defense ) through the insanity claim, which is actually really fucking hard to use. that should give you an idea of his scores on mental exams. but again, he has brain damage, and every single psych he’s ever interacted with has mentioned that they can no longer determine what’s an actual mental illness or what’s just his brain being physically unable to function correctly. he’s never been to therapy, but he’s been tested several times. his scores changed every time, for every section. the only thing anyone’s certain on is PTSD. Depression, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, General Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, and Schizophrenia have been heavily considered, but even professionals argue with each other. he’s a medical mystery even in mental health. he needs therapy, but his disorders make him extremely avoidant of it. that is not to say everything i listed is true, nor is it to say there isn’t anything unlisted here.

🍑  :    how meticulously does my muse look after their physical appearance?  do they spend a lot of time on their hair,  makeup,  grooming,  and clothing?  is there a particular reason why they do or don’t?  

oof. how anxious is he? if he’s anxious, he’ll fix himself 1000x times. if he’s not doing anything special, he’ll walk out the door without a second thought. he doesn’t spend a lot of time on anything, but he does make sure he’s well groomed and put together. it should be noted, though, he doesn’t look in the mirror. his own apartment doesn’t have one, and he avoids public restrooms like the plague. his own reflection is a fucking trigger. this is probably why his eyeliner is always smudged.

🍒  :    how much does my muse value companionship?  do they constantly keep people around them,  or do they prefer to be alone often?  do they have or desire to have many friends?  do they see every meeting as an opportunity to make a new friend?  

confusing as fuck. he’s lonely as hell and constantly wants to hangout with people, but he also will have periods of avoiding them like the fucking plague. he loves hanging out! he fucking hates being out! who knows! for the most part, he has a lot of friends in a lot of places and will gladly drink with any group of strangers, but he’ll yeet the fuck out if you try actually getting close to him. he’s alone, always, at home and only around people when working or getting fucked up. having other people around too often, like a roommate perhaps, will make his mental health act the fuck up.

🍇  :    how would my muse describe their childhood?  how much has it impacted the person they are now,  or will become as an adult?  around what age did they or will they start to mature,  and why?  do they wish to go back to their days as a child,  or have they embraced adulthood? 

in his words, it was a great big pile of horseshit on fire. he literally has brain damage from it. he can’t leave his own room without convincing himself it’s going to be his living room, not his childhood home, and sometimes he’ll open the bedroom door and see his father standing there, and then he’ll fucking yeet back into bed. obviously it’s impacted him just a smidge. definitely not full of self-hatred and constantly fighting himself to do shit he likes, absolutely most definitely not traumatized in a million forms and continues to trigger himself because how the fuck do you go about your day not panicking half of the time. IN OTHER WORDS, he was a fucking parent to his brother when he was only 4, he would rather die in the most slow, most painful death than return to childhood. is he even still alive bc he doesn’t know

🍐  :    how intelligent is my muse overall?  are they smarter than the average person,  or less than?  are they primarily self-taught,  or did they acquire most of their knowledge in school?  are they more street smart or book smart? 

if you knew him before his skull was caved in, you would call him a freak for how fast he could think and solve problems. he was the type of genius you’d only heard about in stories, and he pissed off his teachers because he never even needed to be taught. show him the super simple problem once and he knew how to do everything for the next three weeks. he grew up on the streets and read shakespeare for fun. he lost it all. it now only shows rarely, on really good days, when the stars want to align.

🍉  :    which of the four seasons suits my muse best,  and why? 

summer. he literally lived outside most of the time since he was a kid, and summer nights were easiest. outdoor concerts, parties late at night, cookouts and campfires. he also loves storms.

🍌  :    is my muse inclined to help others,  or will they only do it when it benefits them,  if at all?  what makes them this way?  has it ever gotten them into trouble,  or inconvenienced them?

which personality is showing most at the time? he’s gotten accused of rape for helping a woman once. let that sink in. but also, he’s helped so many people he’s protected by half the city’s underworld. who knows.

🍊  :    does my muse desire romance?  is it something they would actively seek out,  or prefer to happen more  ‘  naturally?  ’  what is their love life like?  do they have any exes or past flings,  or crushes? 

o k a y listen. these r getting too hard i literally don’t know ok can i asked which disorder or which personality is showing most at the time for this bc IT CHANGES like everything always does. mostly, he’s,, weird. he actively seeks it out in the sense he’ll go on dates regularly, but he’s not actually trying to find a girlfriend. he’s carefree. also traumatized. really wanted romance until his heart was ripped to shreds and now he’s convinced himself he’s not lovable, too complicated, extremely undesirable, and especially undeserving of it. he won’t let it happen. no one should have to suffer by having to deal with him. if you’re including things that were just for fun and both parties knew it wasn’t serious, he’s had a few girlfriends. if we’re only including serious things, then he’s only had (1) serious boyfriend. They were together for nearly two years, and they split solely because Jeremiah a) didn’t want sex as much and b) didn’t want to try any kinks. def no trauma from that, absolutely doesn’t panic abt not being good enough or wanting it enough or being pleasing or being fun or attractive or too scarred. nope. also totally doesn’t do shit he doesn’t even like / triggers him just bc they want it gotta give it to them. perfectly fuckin’ fine after one relationship.

🍓  :    how is my muse typically seen by others?  does it ring true to who they really are?  does their reputation matter to them? 

our options: 1) aggressive 2) smooth n flirty 3) soft n adorable. he is all of the above. if you’re from the city and connected to the drug world at all, there’s a big ass chance you’re aware he was a major dealer at one point, the son of a psycho serial killer, and connected to damn near every gang in some way. there are few people who would be stupid enough to hurt him, just because there’s probably some member somewhere who’s going to get revenge for it. his rep is pretty positive if ur aware he basically turned the outskirts of the city from a shithole to a really good community. otherwise, u probably just think ‘criminally insane deliquent’. he doesnt rly care about it unless u start asking about his fucking dad.

🥝  :    does my muse have any  ‘  unusual  ’  habits, interests,  and  /  or talents?  do they hide it,  or are they proud of it? 

b r u h i dont fuckin know im skipping this one, he’s just obsessive compulsive about the oddest things

🍋  :    what kind of diet does my muse have?  do they eat regularly,  or the standard 2-3 meals a day?  do they have to be reminded to eat,  or are they likely to remind others?  do they cook,  or have others cook for them?  do they eat healthily,  or not so much?  

no diet. no food. eat if money, starve if none. remember to eat who?? o u mean eat everything. who fucking knows. he can cook really well, sometimes, maybe. pizza and taco bell 4 life. fuck vegetables. fruits are delicious and to be treasured. he mostly eats like shit, if he eats at all.

🥭  :    how important to my muse is their hometown,  or where they’re from?  are they proud of it,  or considered a hometown hero? did they move away,  or do they wish to?

none. no fucks given. still here bc no money to move. would happily fuck off to Paris or something.

[black-coffee-cutie-blog]

how to handle upset stomach after a binge and when restricting or fasting.

[TW: eating disorders, laxatives, restricting, fasting, binging, emetophobia]

as someone with 3 digestive conditions, a relapse always manages to screw up my digestion and overall comfort. I'm sure that there are others who feel that sentiment strongly, so I'm gonna share some of what works for me.

general upper digestive system issues (heartburn, acid reflux, nausea, etc.): antacids are my go-to medicine. however, they come in a lot more forms than you might realize! if your symptoms are minor, regular tums will work just fine.

i also like to use alka-seltzer tablets mixed with water, mostly because the fizziness combined with the medicine really helps settle my stomach. (hint: if the taste of regular alka-seltzer is too gross for you to handle, put some lemon juice in there. lemon is a natural anti-nausea agent. even smelling a lemon takes my symptoms away sometimes.)

if you're terribly nauseous and don't want to vomit, the scent of rubbing alcohol helps, as does peppermint oil. if you're in public, it's nearly impossible to gag while humming or clenching your left thumb tightly in your fist.

if you have nausea associated with acid reflux, skip the ginger. ginger tends to make that a lot worse **when ingested**. However, smelling or topically applying ginger oil does help considerably.

for acid reflux, sleeping with your head elevated is a good idea. during the day, there are a bunch of OTC medicines that help. There are some purple capsules called Prilosec OTC, and the active ingredient is Omeprazole. They work like a charm and are usually inexpensive. I would always suggest capsules over tablets for acid reflux because tablets tend to make the back of your throat feel like it's on fire the second they hit the acid that's already there. 10/10 would not recommend. also, if you're gonna get non-gummy chewable antacids, please drink a bit of water before you take them. acid reflux can make your mouth feel dry and antacids combined with a dry mouth feels disgusting.

if it isn't reflux, ginger comes in many different forms. I find that anything that allows me to taste and smell the ginger as I ingest it helps a lot. ginger drops are good, but usually don't give long-lasting relief. ginger tea is better because it allows for you to sip with each wave of nausea and settles your stomach. ginger capsules are good if you're okay with waiting 30 minutes for them to kick in.

upper digestive issues after a binge: for me, the worst thing i felt when i habitually binged was the nausea. usually, the reflux got better when I binged and worse when I went back to restricting.

for nausea after a binge, Nauzene tablets are a lifesaver. they look DISGUSTING. they taste DISGUSTING. they work within 4 minutes. they're worth it.

emetrol is a liquid version of Nauzene, essentially, and it is NOT WORTH IT. it works within 15 minutes and wears off almost as fast. and it tastes like absolute horseshit. thats a hard pass for me.

i wouldn't suggest antacid tablets after a binge because you need to drink water with them, and drinking water after a binge makes you feel bloated, in my experience. gummy antacids, however, are a lifesaver. I would not recommend gummy antacids with a hard shell on the outside. they taste and feel chalky.

upper digestive issues during restriction or fasting: tea is a life-saver for heartburn and nausea while restricting and fasting. if calories concern you, drink with an ASPARTAME-FREE 0 calorie sweetener. I recommend Stevia. chamomile, peppermint, and lemon lavender are my personal upper GI go-to teas. just about any tea will work, though I would suggest avoiding citrus or cinnamon.

if it's night-time and your symptoms are severe, boy do i have a reccomendation for you: alka seltzer brand mixed-berry flavored gummy antacids with melatonin. these bitches will have you heartburn and nausea free within 10 minutes, and if they don't? that's okay, your ass will be KNOCKED OUT before you can even complain. these are especially helpful for getting through a fast, because sometimes, the best thing you can do for comfort is sleep it off. plus, they're sweet, and they have an added benefit of helping with low blood sugar and dizziness from fasting and restricting.

for lower body digestive system issues (bloating, diarrhea, constipation, pain) in general: when you're bloated, anything minty will usually help. peppermint or spearmint leaves (just chew them), a LOW DOSE (1 or 2 drops) of peppermint oil mixed into tea, etc.

for diarrhea, my best reccomendation would be to NOT TAKE AN ANTI-DIARRHEAL. unless you want to not shit for 4 days while feeling like you need to every few minutes, that's a nope from me, dog. nah, instead, I would suggest eating mild food. the BRAT diet is always my go to: Banana, Rice, Apples, Toast. A bonus is that those are all generally "safe" foods. they tend to be bland and easy to digest, which makes the loose stool stop sooner. also, make sure you're drinking enough water, because dehydration is the main reason why loose stools have killed people in the past. don't drink a ton of water at once, though. space it out throughout the day.

also, normal Pepto Bismol liquid is my favorite for bringing diarrhea to a stop without causing constipation. I would suggest keeping a big bottle of it in the fridge if you're prone to loose stools. I personally find Pepto Bismol tablets to be ineffective in handling symptoms as quickly as the liquid. the liquid coats your esophagus and stomach, which helps with upper GI symptoms too. DO NOT USE CHERRY FLAVORED PEPTO BISMOL unless it is literally your last option, because it tastes HORRID and you will never forget the taste. it will enter your nightmares and pervade your senses when least expected. you think I'm being dramatic, but I promise you, you would regret it.

for constipation, do not take a ton of laxatives. the last thing you need on top of all this mess is an accidental laxative addiction. laxatives don't do shit for weight loss, and they get your body dependent on outside help for digestion. don't even start it.

one stool softening pill is fine. if it doesn't work, don't try and jumpstart the process. instead, take the RECCOMENDED AMOUNT of a fiber powder, or eat some foods high in fiber (these tend to be low-calorie). a quick google search should bring up a list of high-fiber foods.

for abdominal pain, I recommend heat in some form. a hot bath, a heating pad, a hot water bottle. if you're out in public, there are these portable heat patches that you can buy in a four-pack. they're used more often for joint pain, but they help a lot if your stick 'em on your tummy too. if you are a person who gets periods, these help with cramps too, just as a side note. DO NOT USE HEAT PATCHES WITH CAPSAICIN IN THEM. THEY WILL BURN YOU. I don't just mean you'll feel a burning sensation, I mean that I left one of those on my stomach for maybe 10 minutes and sustained a first degree burn from it. nothing makes stomach pain worse like adding another layer of pain to contend with.

If you're restricting at any level, DON'T TAKE PAIN MEDICINE FOR ABDOMINAL PAIN OR ANY PAIN PLEASE I BEG OF YOU it'll make you so nauseous and it's honestly the quickest way to get an ulcer.

kaopectate is great for lower digestive issues but for the love of all things good keep it in the fridge and don't get the vanilla kind. the taste of warm vanilla kaopectate is beyond horrid. not as bad as cherry Pepto, but close.

Imodium pills are usually pretty helpful too. Kaopectate works better for me, but I'd try both to see which one is most helpful for you personally. In terms of overall effectiveness, they're equal, but Kaopectate works faster.

Final notes:

1. I am not encouraging anyone to develop an ED in these tips. I'm just trying to help people feel better. having an ED doesn't mean you don't deserve basic comfort and symptom relief.

2. if you have dogs or kids running around, do NOT let them get ahold of any minty essential oils. peppermint, eucalyptus, spearmint, etc. will all cause children and pets severe breathing problems. kids have died from smelling peppermint oil. don't use essential oil diffusers at all with kids in the general vicinity.

3. I am not a doctor. I'm a sick person with way too much time on my hands and a severe illness phobia. please don't take my word as law. if a certain medicine works better for you, cool! I'm just giving my personal experiences and trying to help y'all avoid the medicine mistakes I've made. also, if you're on prescription meds, ask your doctor before taking other OTC meds.

4. eating disorders suck. these symptoms that we have to deal with because of them suck. if you are in the initial stages of an ED and you're reading this, get help. if you're in the late stages, get help. it is never too early or too late to get help. no good therapist or doctor will ever tell you to come back when your symptoms are worse, and if they do, they need to have their license revoked. the mere presence of eating disordered ideation or intent is enough to merit treatment. if you think it's too late, it's never too late until you're dead. don't let it get that far, please. you can be happy. you can be healthy. you deserve to be happy and healthy and alive. you deserve to thrive. you deserve to be okay.

i love you all. if you ever need ANYTHING, I'm one message away. i hope y'all feel better soon. 💞

[winterscream4]

No Works and No Days (Part 2)

Mountains of green…moving, crashing into black ravines.

Marlowe found something soothing about watching the cardiograph while he kept slipping in and out of consciousness. Always intrigued by all things weird and eerie, Marlowe had recently heard a radio transmission from Saturn, purportedly captured by NASA’s Cassini-Huygens probe. The caption on the UFOlogists’ website wrote: Aliens having a conversation on Enceladus. The machine’s recurrent beeping reminded him of that, although it did not so much sound like a discussion. More like, an alien mother’s lullaby.  

Marlowe’s eyes, still twitching from the anesthesia scanned the hospital room’s environs. Medical tubes, tangling like jungle tendrils above him. Intravenous liquids travelling from translucent vales into Marlowe’s veins below. Pistachio green walls began to appear, beyond the post-surgery compression stockings that covered his feet. Thinking back to Quentin Tarantino’s first “Kill Bill” movie, Marlowe instinctively made an effort to move his toes, then his heels and ultimately to bend his legs. Between his knees, a strange shape started assuming form. It was the painting of a tree, shaded in the colors of the evening dusk, as its expanding branches multiplied into smudges and birds, fluttering towards the grey melancholy sky stretching above them. Marlowe’s eyes narrowed as the inkblots below, merged into letters. Titled “Return of the Fieldfares”, the painting, lodged inside a dark grey frame, was attributed to Devon landscape artist Stewart Edmondson. Devon…home to Katelyn Elizabeth Holmes, the woman who got him out of his seclusion right before Martin entered his life once more. It was a shame, things never worked out with her, but then again, how could they have? Marlowe’s only desire at the time was intrigue and excitement, a life worth of a classic detective mystery. And Holmes, well, a rose by any other name might have been sweeter. She was too deliberate, too eager…too easy to spread her legs and let him plug jumper cables on her vaginal lips just to get her and himself going. But Marlowe didn’t enjoy it one bit. Bondage, torture and domination may have worked in the moments when people like Roderick Prospero or Alexander Driskull mixed their personal and professional lives, but despite superficial urgings Marlowe always held deep feelings of repulsion against exerting control over another human being. After all, he had been the butt of that joke all too many times himself.

But maybe all that was a load of horseshit. After all, how could someone feel that degree of attraction for men like Martin without seeing a little of himself in there?  Funny wasn’t it?

How after Martin injected him with the serum and tossed him in the ocean, his mind blended images of himself with those of Hyde? How, as he was being tossed around by the waves, memories and dreams merged into constellations of murder and insanity, pushing, compelling, forcing, beckoning him to…

“You’re up.”

The interjecting voice was soft but a little croaky. A woman, probably one, going through the flue. Marlowe moved his gaze to the direction of the voice, like a blind bat, navigating its cage through echolocation.

“I…”

Words were difficult. His throat was dry. He hadn’t smoked in a while, but the sensation was familiar, albeit taken to the extreme. Something soft and wet touched his lips. Velvet…nay…cotton…bandage strip dipped in water.

“Careful…” the voice instructed…directed, as tanned hands pushed his head forward. Marlowe’s body obeyed, although his eyes still blurring a bit, needed to verify its origins.

“There….There, we go…”

Friedrich Nietzsche’s concept of the eternal return sprang in Marlowe’s mind. This had happened before…back in 2013, when his nearly dead body was cast ashore a small island, a few miles away from the coast of Midvintersville. A man there, whispered the same thing as he had him sip drops from herbal tea. It tasted like dung mixed with vomit. But it saved his life. Still…that was his name. A man who faced the Black Glove in the past and ended up resigning from life, choosing to dwell as a hermit in an abandoned lighthouse.

The man Marlowe came to know as Still, even though he was certain this wasn’t his real name, had attempted to train him in combat, teach him the art of murder by the sword. He thought it was the only way to take down the four fingers of the Black Glove. He was wrong. The hand, beneath the Glove ended up strangling its own throat. Marlowe felt guilt surging through him, for not visiting Still since the day he left the isle…since the two men watched the clouds gather in the distance as the Storm of the Century was approaching. Lightening…

Light.

“Oh my God. I am so sorry!”

Marlowe grunted in irritation as he pushed his body away from the flash.

“I just needed to check your pupils, but we can do that later. Is that okay with you, Mr. Marlowe?”

“Mr. Marlowe”…There was a weird ring to it. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy the formality but with the last person who called him that, the interaction concluded with him getting shoveled on the back of his skull.

 Several nonsense words ending in “y” were muttered before he finally got it right.

“Stanley…”

“Okay…Stanley.”

“Thhstanley!”…There was a pronounced lisp in her voice. Not that it took much away from its charm, but Marlowe couldn’t help but poke fun at it in his head. Little did he realize that, all those drugs had put his mind where his mouth was.

“Okay…bit of a dick move bro!”

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

The woman chuckled.

“I am kidding!” she exclaimed almost as if it was a plot twist. “After I had my appendix removed, I called my mother an Ugly Bitch! Can you believe that? So yeah, I get it, it’s the meds talking.”

Marlowe was too dizzy to respond. His stomach was churning but the usual acidic taste reaching the gullet before vomiting, wasn’t there just yet.

“I feel…”

“Yeah, I just put an antiemetic in your I.V. Give it a few minutes. Meanwhile, I wanted to give you this.”

Marlowe observed a hand entering his visual field. It was not as dark in complexion as he originally thought but had a golden tint to it instead. The fingers were long and hairless, the nails short and undyed but evidently manicured recently. As the fog began to clear from his eyes, he gazed upwards.  The voice was revealed to have a face and a strange one at that. She was clearly far more tanned than most Canadians he’d encountered the previous two years; Latina but not exactly. Her nose bore that distinct feature of Golden Age illustrations, symmetrical but slightly pointing downwards. The lips, smiling gently at him, were unusually large. Little bit of lipstick, maybe, rotten apple in color. Her hair was cut short, reaching down a little below her shoulders. A very nineties style, reminiscent of Willow Rosenberg’s from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And the eyes, almost uncanny compared with her complexion. Almond shaped, hazel in color, purplish kind of, under the cold hospital lighting. There she stood, a petrol shirt tucked under her blank medical robe, formal trousers held together by a brown belt, visible just above the hospital’s mattress.

A weight was pushing down his chest. Marlowe glanced below. Henry David Thoreau’s greyscale portrait was starring right at him.

“The paramedics found it laying by your side in the woods.”

“Have you read it?” Marlowe toiled to speak as his lips had started to turn dry again.

“I am more of a “Civil Disobedience” kind of gal. But yeah, it’s a beautiful book.”

Most of, Whitman’s, Emmerson’s and Thoreau’s works were in a prominent place at the Winter Manor’s library. Marlowe had leafed through “Civil Disobedience” although by that point he scarcely remembered what it was about, lest for a few catchy quotes.

“The true place for a just man is the prison…or maybe the hospital…”

“Well” the woman replied as she adjusted the flow of his I.V. “Next time you want to play Socrates, you stick to wine and opium. Cause that Destroying Angel the doctors found in your system; man, was it a hustle to remove!”

Marlowe froze, flabbergasted. How could he have been that stupid? He’d read the books! The Destroying Angel mushroom had well-earned its name. It was rumored to be the most common source of fungi-ingested deaths in the Northern hemisphere, going for your kidneys and liver first before entering the blood. Then it starts fucking up the rest of you all the same. But then Marlowe’s mind harked back to another thing the woman had just mentioned. “The Doctors…?”. Wasn’t she one of them?

“You are not…a doctor?” he quizzed in a tone concealing hints of suspicion.

The woman smiled. Her lips grew weirded but strangely more compelling also.

“Mary Schwann. Neuropsychology PhD, from Berkley’s, specializing on the viral counter-myelination of neuronal tissue and neurodynamic psychotherapy.”

“I will need to see a C.V. on that…”

“Screw you.” The woman smiled again. “You are in good hands.”

“Was my brain…”

“Oh no, no! You are no worse off that you used to be. We did an fMRI just in case. But I do have some bad news.”

“Shit…”

“Your insurance mandates four hours of psychotherapy. Hence, you are going be stuck with me for a while. But first, we’re going to get you all better. The poison is now out of your system, so if my predictions are correct, you’ll be home by tomorrow.”

“And the therapy…?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you in my office by the end of the week.”

The woman checked her watch.

“Well, I have a few errands to run now, but I’ll be back to check in on you in the morning. It was very nice meeting you, Mister Walden.”

“It was nice meeting you…Civil Disobedience kind of gal.”

 Even though Marlowe retained his suspicions after getting discharged, he spent many days and nights wishing she had called. A peculiar kind of sorrow surged through him as the months passed and the fear of getting sick from food poisoning again thrusted him into passing his days back under the sheets or in front of a laptop screen. Being a man, with a strong proclivity for the extremes, Marlowe turned his diet 180 degrees to the opposite direction. Wild weeds and nuts were replaced by beef and cheesesteak, forest greens by potato fritters, sumac and rose-dog beverages by Coke and Dr. Pepper and his sautéed mushroom meals were usurped by the Marlowe sub. Gaining pound upon pound, misery upon misery, Marlowe watched the seasons pass from the Winter Manor’s second floor balcony as 2019 came to a close and a virus, born as some say in an industrial town of China, crossed the Atlantic and forced Midvintersville and the entire western world into a seemingly endless lockdown.

As the news only spoke of ever-increasing case numbers, Marlowe found some solace, or perhaps willful self-numbing, in the digital world. Besides using the wi-fi to play video games like: Doom Eternal, Fortnite and Subnatica Below Zero on ps4 and for performing his seven-times-per-day log in to his Pornhub account, Marlowe occasionally used the internet to muse over facets of his old detective life. Since the last days of 2019, he had made accounts to various websites dealing with strange incidents taking place across the globe. Most of them were either hot spots for the kind of lunatics and disgruntled males that conspiracy businesses like QAnon thrived upon, or just plain second-rate creepy pasta. Then again, Marlowe thought about resorting to some law-enforcement websites he knew from his Criminology years at Cambridge, but in those days, police had become more fond of committing the crimes rather than solving them.

Almost by accident, Marlowe encountered an obscure blog titled “Curiosities and Monstrosities” which, at least in appearance, seemed a little more valid than the rest. The authors had recorded all known activities of the New York Ripper from 2011, some of which even Marlowe didn’t know about. They had also listed hundreds of cases, solved, unsolved and classified alike, from marginal misdemeanors to federal crimes, marked by unusual or inexplicable details.

Marlowe had made his own list of those that intrigued him most. A double homicide in Sleepy Hollows, Illinois, apparently committed by a drug-mule even though witnesses swore to have seen a black pumpkin engulfed in green flames, leaving the scene. Then there was that neighboring feud, turning ugly, with a nearby tenant claiming that both members involved possessed occult powers, with the man turning into a reptilian and the woman producing red, energy orbs out of her hands. And last, came the discovery of three bodies after a fire in a field, somewhere in the great out there of Texas, with one of them preserving a contorted face, as if it was still laughing, the other restrained against a sanguinello tree and the third being toothless, while having grown root like structures on the back of its head, as if it had just become one with the tree before burning to a crisp.

But all of that paled in comparison to the sheer numbers of deaths, committed by a smaller and far less theatrical assassin. The virus had already claimed the lives of almost 30 million people across the world. At the same time, politicians ignored or underestimated the virus, some claiming it a fraud while others recommending bleach as a potent cure against it. Sometimes, Marlowe pondered if an idiot in a position power could be more dangerous than the Black Glove, since at the very least they had a plan before inflicting their repertoires of corruption and atrocity.

 Yet, by November 2020 things were getting a little more hopeful in Midvintersville. Even though the rest of Canada was still in peril, the summer-lasting lockdown imposed by Walter Greene, the town’s newly elected mayor, somehow seemed to work. A day before his birthday, as Marlowe browsed his computer for lockdown lifting news, he was all too astounded to find an unread email from the night before, marked with a familiar name at the top.

Mary Schwann. PhD.

Closing all google chrome windows on the side, Marlowe rushed to open the email, reading its contents aloud with a smile beaming across his face.

“U still owe me 4 hours of therapy. Lockdown’s lifted next week. U available?”

“PS: I hate the U’s but your file said you were born in 1979. I am a 1978. Need to appear younger. Lol.”

“PS: Hate the lols’ too.”

Marlowe did not need to ponder much. Thoughts of Mary Schwann being some sort of Black Glove assassin or a friend of Boisette’s aching for vengeance for the pulp of guts and bones that was left of him, crossed his mind but he was such an easy target to begin with, that all that trouble seemed counter-productive.

“Took you a while.” he typed, while trying to come up with some ridiculous piece of millennial slang to throw into his email.

“When we get our moment of exodus, I’ll be there. Care to meet at the old aqueducts, near the cemetery? Imao.”

“PS: I don’t know what Imao means. But it sounds a lot like a lost pygmy race from the Pacific archipelago.”

I ‘ve missed y…delete.

Marlowe jumped off his office chair, pacing towards the second floor’s ornate windowpanes. He pulled the burgundy curtains embroidered with golden floral patterns aside and gazed at the city looming beyond a vast stretch of black firs and daunting pines. The drizzle, descending in full strength across the day had ceased, and parting skies revealed the romantic glory of the solar star, disappearing beneath the Atlantic. A pal mal inevitably found itself between Marlowe’s lips. He huffed and he puffed and even though the taste was the same, it felt different for Marlowe had rarely ever smoked while feeling something akin to joy. 

All the toy soldiers he was playing with before lay motionless against the dining table, next to a half-eaten Marlowe sub. James’ Bonsai was still there, facing the sunset while shading over the ruined faces of Marlowe’s long dead adversaries. 

This will have to suffice. Marlowe thought. For now.

***********************************************************

Crooked rays of red light glimmered through the stained glass, as Vesper beckoned above the Opera House. 

The floorboards creaked ominously, as if the night herself had dismounted from her celestial mare and was striding down the Opera’s archaic oaken panels. Streams of accumulated water from the day’s persistent drizzle were crossing through the underground tubing almost muffling the yelps and sobs, echoing from beneath the black hood.

A woman, or what was left of her. Her face covered by a crudely sewn ebony fabric, like the prisoners of Abu Ghraib; her body sealed in concrete. Her palms and legs below the calf, bruised by the cold and the damp and the beatings, extending from the dark grey surface, like the clay appendages used in ancient Rome as offerings to heal the ailing limps of the sufferers.

She was suffering. He had made sure of that.

Her left foot dangled in the air; the pain made worse by the itching. A single strip of gaze, wrapped around the bleeding blotch where her middle toe used to be, held together by a threadbare string of manilla rope. The marble floor below her had turned green and wet, from moisture and the saliva that had been trickling from her mouth for the past week, as the ball-gag more often than not inhibited her from swallowing properly. The gagging reflex made her head shake neurotically back and forth. Time had disappeared the moment she was captured, and days and nights had blended into a single pit of agony and fear of impending pain.

The noises issuing from her lips and body were those of a fox, whose foot had been lodged in a beartrap and her mouth had been muzzled so that she won’t be able to chew it off even if she wanted to. Only occasionally, they were interrupted, after passing out, when her brain allowed her a few moments of rest in unconsciousness.

But this was not one of those moments.

For right across her, the flickering light of a desk lamp that signaled his arrival had been turned back on again. And with it, returned the methodical, calculated almost, squeaking sound of his armchair as it resounded across the abandoned halls. Gradually, as the lamplight flared into existence, his torn linen cowl revealed itself; once a mask whole marked with a quarter note, symbolizing a man’s inner journey into music, art and childhood dreams, now a derelict mockery of its past significance. With the darkness dissipating, revealing the canvas of his art once more, his bronze teeth hummed an infernal melody while grinding through the flesh and nail and bone of the woman’s toe and ultimately swallowing it along with the few remaining hopes of her nightmare ever coming to an end.

[theliterateape]

My 600-pound Bowl of Cheesy Fear

by Don Hall

According to national health statistics, an average adult male needs 2,500 calories and an average adult female needs 2,000 calories per day to maintain a healthy weight.

Further, it takes 3,500 calories to gain a pound of weight.  Lastly, the most common size for a bowling ball is 13 pounds.

Recently, at a friend’s house, my wife and I stumbled upon a TLC show called “My 600-lb Life” and were suddenly sucked into watching the trials of two women, both of whom were pushing past 600 pounds.  The show is one of those reality documentaries that hit the people being documented at a point in their lives when they realize the dark abyss they have sunk into and are now seeking help.

The first woman could barely get up out of bed, her feet were the size of paint cans and her son, who was easily pushing 350 pounds himself, had to help her roll out of bed, into a wheelchair, roll her out to the parking lot, open up a van and help her roll into the back of the van just to transport her to the televised doctor’s office.

She said she wanted to lose weight but she didn’t really want to put in the work.  “The work” mostly being not eating so much fucking food and taking a few walks a day.  At the end of the episode, it was apparent she would be buried in a piano-sized coffin because she simply didn’t want to lose the equivalent of two whole people.

Don't worry, though. At our current rate of political genius, she'll be president in no time at all.

Around ten years ago, I was carrying around 265 pounds of weight.  I was a chunky dude but I thought I was pretty strong and that most of it was “table muscle.”  It was Christmastime and the food was plentiful.  After gorging ourselves for three days straight - turkey, ham, cheeses, crackers, cakes and pies, candy, cheeses, pizza, pizza rolls, tacos, cheeses, mashed potatoes, yams, and bread in every fucking form bread could take, my mom suggested we all go to the gym.

I laughed.  “I don’t go on some treadmill like a hamster on a wheel.  No.  Not for me.”

“You could use some exercise,” my mom gently nudged.

Reluctantly, I decided to go with she and my wife just to see.

LATE NIGHT PERFECTION

One Brick of Cream Cheese 1 can of Hormel chili with beans 1 white onion, diced 1 bag of shredded cheddar cheese 1 large bag of Fritos

Mix the cream cheese, can of chili, onion and cheddar cheese in a casserole dish.  Microwave for eight minutes.  Pour the bag of Fritos into a mixing bowl, dump the gooey mess on top and eat while watching your favorite sci fi series on your laptop.

Calories: 6,400

While watching the TLC show, my mind was flooded with questions about being 600 pounds plus.

How do you get that big? What do you do with your time? How do you wipe your ass?

So, later, I looked it up online.

Weight gain in the land of plenty, regardless of your economic status is fucking easy.  Fast food is the biggest culprit, followed only by snack foods.  Rich people can afford personal chefs and personal trainers.  Middle income people can afford to get a gym membership and like to run 5Ks.  Poor people are pretty much fucked.

A Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, Large Fries and a Large Coke (the biggest seller at most McDonald’s) contains 1700 calories.  A bag of regular chips (the tiny ones) are 320 calories.  A Chipotle Burrito is 800 calories.  A beer has around 300 calories.  Do the math, man.  Walking a mile only burns about 70 calories so you’d have to walk 25 miles just to burn off that Mickey Dee’s lunch.  Which is the equivalent of walking to Evanston and back from Smoke Daddy in Wicker Park.

You certainly don’t get to be 600 pounds by doing much walking, or yard work or going to the gym.  Turns out, in fact, that working out has less to do with weight loss than simply not eating as much.  Working out, however, improves your chances as it boosts your metabolism and stamina.  And, you know, that heart thing.

Mom and Jen went off to work out together.  I went to the stair master.  I set the speed to 10 out of 20 because I wanted to start out slow.  Couldn’t do it.  Too fucking fast.  I kept lowering it until it was at 1, the lowest setting, and I did those stairs until I was huffing like I was going to die, sweat pouring into my eyes.  It took me less than five minutes.

So I moved over to an exercise bike.  Same result.  Five minutes on the lowest setting and I thought my chest was going to explode.

Maybe it’s just that I’m strong, right?  I head downstairs to the weight room area.  I can only do two pull ups.  I can only do four tricep pulls with 30 pounds.  I can’t lift more than 25 pounds more than ten times before I turn into a sack of sweaty, grunting suet.  A woman sees me struggling with a dumb bell.  

“Are you Jackie’s son?  She was right.  You got fat!”

BRUNCH ON A SUNDAY IN WICKER PARK

A three egg cheese omelette with sausage: 800 calories A side of bacon: 210 calories Hash browns: 300 calories Three buttermilk pancakes with syrup: 600 calories

How far do I have to run to burn off that brunch? 20 miles.

I found out that for a 600-pound person to wipe his or her ass, they generally need a bidet or a stick with a towel on it, like one of those squeegee guys on the sidewalk.  That they will lift a 125 pound ass cheek to get the stick up under and into the crevice-like ass crack.  That to simply wipe your ass, you’re going to spend about 40 minutes to get to the toilet, take your enormous dump, wipe yourself and clean things up.

If it took me 40 minutes to drop a douce, I’m guessing I’d opt for laying around, the iPad teetering on my giant mound of stomach and just watching Netflix while casually munching on Chicken Nuggets.  So it’s hard to lay too much blame on someone that size for deciding to give up.

I got home from Christmas and joined the YMCA.  I’m not funny enough to be the Funny Fat Guy in any comedy troupe.  I didn’t diet - I just ate half as much as I wanted to.  I worked out for at least 45 minutes every day.  I’d lose some weight and feel elated.  Then do the same amount of work and eat the same amount of food and not drop a pound for two months.  I’d eat bread the night before and gain four pounds.  Pasta?  Fuck you.  Pizza?  Get thee behind me, Satan.  Cheese?  Aw, christ - cheese is my kryptonite.

Snickers Bar = 250 calories Two Pop Tarts = 400 calories A plate of Curly Fries = 600 calories Wendy’s signature Apple Pecan Chicken Salad = 570 Calories

Christ - even Fast Food salads pack on the shit like duct taping clay to your ass.

Two and a half years later, after completely changing how I ate and incorporating a fairly rigorous amount of gym time into my daily grind, I had dropped 80 pounds.  The equivalent of six 13 pound bowling balls.  Down to the weight I was when I graduated high school.

Ten years later, I’m pretty much still around that weight - five or ten pounds depending on the weather and the holidays.  I still count every fucking calorie.  I weigh myself every week. I still work out almost seven days a week.  And I still feel like I’m a fat guy just dying to balloon back up.  Once in a while, I go for a gluttonous meal.  Once in a while, I’ll eat half of a Dimo’s Pizza (3,000 calories) or binge on Snickers Ice Cream bars (180 calories apiece.)  I always feel shitty the next four days because it takes me four days to feel like I’ve worked it off.

Weight loss in the Land of IHOB (…really? IHOB?) is hard. It takes a determination to change yourself. All the quick fixes are horseshit and it's harder when you're poor than when you're rich. Weight loss is change and we don't really want change because change is work. If it's this hard to drop a few bowling balls offa yer giant gut, imagine the work it takes to change your worldview. Imagine the sheer force of will it takes to reverse your own racism or sexism.

When you're scraping by, dancing the dance to pay all of your earnings to a slum landlord and taking out a mortgage to get your colonoscopy, more work is just another big ass boulder to push up that mountain.

On the other hand, I'm guessing Sisyphus was in pretty good shape.