#also i selfishly want to be able to keep track of my own personal favorites as i go along lol

[larsnicklas]

hockey writing appreciation club part ii (part i here) hi team. let's support good sportswriting, whether with clicks or subscriptions! here are some more of my favorite articles i've read in the past little bit! i'll keep sharing articles every few weeks or so, and i always welcome recommendations if you have them as well!!

A mysterious illness halted his promising NHL career. Eight years later, hope and a comeback 🔒 Hodgson didn’t think about the mysterious illness that caused him to walk away from the game. Or the tests for lung cancer, brain cancer and liver cancer that he’d endured in a fruitless quest to figure out what was making him sick. He wasn’t thinking about the months of on-ice work and yoga and a grueling weight-loss regimen that led him to this point. He wasn’t even feeling the blunt soreness of the broken rib he had sustained in his first professional game after his long layoff. All he was thinking about was the gimme pass he’d just received. “If I hadn’t scored on that one,” Hodgson joked, “I might’ve had to shut it down.”

How the NHL rookie class has handled life on and off the ice Confidence becomes more than just a buzzword: It's a mantra. The rookies, after all, have to believe they belong -- even among the future Hall of Famers. "It's not like the guys you're playing against are not human, you know what I mean?" Carlsson said. "You realize you can be a good player here too, and you don't have to be worried that you're not going to make it. If you have confidence out there, you're going to be fine."

For players on the roster fringe, every day in the NHL is a treasure — and a challenge 🔒 Confidence is a funny thing. Even superstars routinely lose theirs during a stretch of what qualifies as mediocrity by their impossible standards. Hang around the game long enough and you’ll lose track of how many times you hear a player talk about just needing to “see the puck in the back of the net” to get himself going again. Never mind that he’s been the best player on the ice at every level. Never mind that he’s scored hundreds of goals in the NHL. Never mind that he’s been so good for so long that he’s paid massive sums of money and showered with love and affection every night. Even the toughest players can spiral mentally. Hockey’s hard, and the pressure’s high.

Nils Hoglander on growing up in a tiny village, why he stays on the ice after practice and his 'hidden talent' Is it harder to shoot a moose or stay in the NHL? A hint is a never-satisfied 5-foot-9, 185 pounds of bowling ball persistence and last player off the practice ice on Tuesday. “I guess I have to say hockey is the hardest,” said Hoglander. “But if you’ve never been out in the forest or anything, it’s kind of hard to know what to do. If you bring Petey (Elias Pettersson) he would have no idea what to do, he’s a city boy.”

'Open people's eyes': How the NHL's evolved in the decade of data The chemist's cell phone rings. He finds a quiet area of the lab to take the call. Hockey Hall of Fame forward Ron Francis is on the line. It's the 2014-15 season, Francis' first as general manager of the small-market Carolina Hurricanes. Francis asks the chemist - who's assumed a part-time consultant role with the NHL team - about a few players. How would you rank them? The call is short. The chemist slides his phone into his pocket, slips his gloves on, and walks to his work station. Back to the day job for Eric Tulsky.

After 1,400 games and counting, Alex Ovechkin still doesn’t break 🔒 When Alex Ovechkin was a rookie, his teammates were concerned he might have a heart attack. The Washington Capitals forward, who was 20 when he played his first NHL game in 2005, has always done things his own way. Back then, that meant a pregame routine of three Red Bulls. When the rest of his teammates were drinking Gatorade or water between periods, Ovechkin was downing soda.

Why a first-round pick walked away from the NHL — and found peace doing odd jobs 🔒 Over the course of his 10-year career, Koekkoek admits he paid far too much attention to external noise. He read negative articles about his play. He paid attention to critics on social media. And he put too much stock into various coaches who didn’t believe in him. “I lost that self-value that someone believed in me to take me in the first round,” he said. “I wish I could have kept my swagger.”

[purplesurveys]

1332

esurvey by joybucket

Facebook's "Did You Know" questions (4/5)

The pictures I upload the most are... Usually the newest merch I’ve bought just because it’s polite to give feedback to the people or shops I transact with...and, quite selfishly, also because K-Pop merch is the price of fucking diamonds that I feel the need to show off the stuff I’ve been able to buy with my own hard-earned money HAHAHA. Makeup or no makeup? You do you, but I personally never wear makeup. It’s unnecessary expense for me. The first thing I do when I turn on the computer is... Close all the apps that automatically boot up when I do so, like Word and Excel. My favorite Mexican food is... Enchiladas. One of my most memorable birthday parties was... I haven’t had a lot of birthday parties per se, but my 23rd birthday (this year) was pretty memorable. I had freshly moved on from a bad breakup and it was the first time I hosted dinner for my family.

Something weird I've eaten is... My mom isn’t a skilled cook so she’s mixed some stuff up before that...aren’t traditionally mixed together, I guess? like they’ve never tasted bad but a lot of them have also not made sense. A favorite color of mine is... Pastel pink. I feel at peace when... I have the aircon turned on and a cup of coffee next to me. For me, the best time to go running is... Oh I hate running lol. I used to be good at it and was even part of the track team in elementary school, but I didn’t keep up with it. A favorite class of mine was... History or any branch of social studies. My favorite emoji is... I use varied emojis for different situations, but I tend to rely on the simple smiling face emoji that can come off as sarcastic depending on the context haha. It’s this one: 🙂 I've never taken a... Sleeping pill. My favorite soup is... Miso soup. A song I love right now is... The DJ Swivel Forever Mix of Euphoria, by Jungkook. I cannot forget... The time I got food poisoning. Action or comedy? Not a big fan of both but I would go for comedy for the laughs. I’m incapable of lasting through an entire action-filled TV episode or movie. Toast is better with... I don’t have toast a lot, but I do like mine with butter and scrambled eggs. The last time I changed my profile pic was... On here? Sometime last week. My favorite 90's clothing is... High-waist denim jeans. A friend who is most loyal to me is... Angela. One goal I want to accomplish in my lifetime is... Purchase my own place. It doesn’t need to be a house; all I want to be able to say is that I have a place that I can call mine. Something I'll never do again is... Dissect an animal, maybe? I can’t imagine a situation wherein I’ll have to do it again. My name means... “Bright famous one.” I'd love to have a pet... There aren’t a lot of animals I want as pets. I already love my dogs. I really miss... Traveling abroad. Have many cities have you lived in... Just one other city, which was Manila. I’ve lived in my current city my whole life, otherwise. The best things in life are... Paid for, which is why I’ve never believed when people push that money can’t buy happiness. Of course it can, and it does. If my life were a movie, the title would be... I’ve never been good with titles. If I could, I would... Cook stuff for family and friends all the time. An unexpected place I've spent the night is... In the car, with my entire family. There had been a terrible typhoon then and the latter part of the highway leading up to our village (and the village itself) was badly flooded, so we, along with what were probably up to a thousand cars, were stuck at the highway and were forced to spend the night there. We were very lucky to have been situated right beside a Jollibee, a 7-11, a gas station, and a restroom. One of my worst nightmares is... Nightmare as in a dream? I had a hundred nightmares about Gabie post-breakup and they were all of course terrible. My perfect day looks like... Staying at a quiet resort, with the aircon turned on all day, taking surveys while I have room service and have the sea right in front of me. Between colored photos or black and white, I prefer... Colored. If I could choose between sleeping in a tent or open air, I'd choose... Tent. It’s so easy to feel vulnerable with the latter, and besides...mosquitoes. Social media has helped me.... Not give a fuck about what people think about the things I post. What are you looking forward to today? Continuing to do nothing for the rest of the day. A friend who always cheers me up is... I don’t believe anyone is capable of successfully cheering me up every time, but the closest would be Angela. One of the weirdest style trends is... I am not the biggest fan of shrugs. If I could go back in time and give myself advice, I would say... I already answered this in an earlier section of this same survey. I've always wanted to start a business of... I’ve never had any interest in starting a business. To be happy one thing you need is... The ability not to care so much. If I went back to school, I'd love to learn... I’d probably just continue hoarding history electives, maybe sprinkle some political science courses in there as well. The thing I love most about my hometown... It’s small and urbanized, so there are a lot of malls, coffee shops, and restaurants that are super easy to get to but at the same time not super populated, since I’m not in the main part of Metro Manila. Something that's better than chocolate is... Literally so many things. Risotto is one. What gets me out of bed in the morning is... For the most part it’s the fact that I have work and I hate being absent. The longest I've gone without sleeping is... Maybe a little over 24 hours. A crazy thing I did once was... Putting a finger onto an iron that just so happened to be plugged in. If I could spend the day with any athlete, I'd spend it with... Mick Foley. My favorite age I've been so far... 23 has been fun. Do you consider yourself a neat person? No.

[ikevampeventarchive]

[Translation] IkeVamp Drama CD ~ Vincent van Gogh Ver.

Thank you very much for all your support and patience. Like before, we have prepared a translation of the IkeVamp Situational CD’s for follower milestones, this time Vincent van Gogh version.

Similar to Napoleon’s CD, these tracks are also available in game as a purchasable story set. 

Set Sale Info  | Vincent CD Preview | Napoleon CD Translation

[This is an unofficial work based on fan-translation. Copyright belongs to Cybird.] 

Prologue ～ Vincent van Gogh ～

00:13  My name? My name is Vincent van Gogh. If it’s okay, can you call me Vincent? The van Gogh who painted the sunflowers? Haha, yes, that’s me. You are very knowledgeable.

00:38 Now, I’ll tell you a bit about this world. To be honest, this isn’t something that many people can know about, so this has to be kept a secret from everyone else.

00:55 In this 19th century France, there exists a mansion within the very depths of this deep, deep forest. And within that mansion, 12 men, including me, live.

01:15 The truth is, these men are hiding an enormous secret. And that secret is that all these men are people who have engraved their names into history. Napoleon, Mozart, Leonardo, Jeanne d’Arc, all of them are my precious co-inhabitants.

01:45 Why is it that all these people from different countries and eras are living together in 19th century France? Ah, sorry, I haven’t explained that yet, did I.

All of us have one more secret. That is,in order to live once again, we all made a contract with the owner of the mansion to become vampires, resurrected and residing in this time.

02:28 Why live once again? Well, everyone at the mansion has their own specific reasons, but mine is…. It’s a bit foolish and embarrassing, so it’s a secret.

Right now, I’m very glad to have been able to live again, because due to that fact, I was able to meet my most beloved person.

03:00 One day, that woman crossed the divisions between space and time, and wandered into our mansion. People could say it was a coincidence, but I think that our meeting was destiny. And now, that woman is my most precious lover.

03:25 Ah, it seems that she will be waking up soon.

This is a story of a quiet day, with the person I love the most in this world.

An Especially Sweet Good Morning:

00:00 Soft music as birds chirp in the distance.

00:15 Hm? Ah, you’re awake? Good morning~

00:26 When did I get up? Just a little before you did. I was just looking at your sleeping face, thinking things like “Ah how cute, just like an angel”.

00:50 Aww, don’t hide your face in the sheets. Come over here — if I hug you like this, you won’t be able to hide anymore. Don’t hang your head, look this way. Please? I want to see your face.

01:15 Is that a no?

01:19 Haha, you finally looked up! ....I know I was the one who asked, but seeing your face this close up makes me kinda embarrassed.

01:37 Why am I embarrassed? It’s because of you, you know. You’re always so, so, adorable, I’m a bit troubled. Ah, no I’d like to make a correction to that. You were so cute last night, but right you’re much cuter right now, too. Everyday you show off so many charms, my heart is always busy trying to keep up.

02:20 Hmmm, hugging you like this...I kind of want to sleep like this a little more. I also want to be like this for a little longer, but I guess I can’t be too selfish.

02:38 Hm? Do you think the same way?

Haha, then let’s make a promise. Today, you’ll do your work to the best of your ability, and I will try my best at my own work today too. The two of us will work hard at our respective jobs and then, at the end of the day, we’ll cuddle in bed like this. After you try your best, don’t forget that I’m always here. How’s that? Me too, after working hard, I’m glad that you are here.

03:31 Okay, seems like we have to get up for real now. Ah, before I leave, one last thing I forgot to do.

03:45 Come here? Kiss Since I’ll really won’t want to leave if we do more, just a kiss.

04:02 Okay, I’m off~

An Especially Precious Work Time:

00:00 Piano music, a door opens and closes.

00:15 Welcome back, I was waiting for you to return. Good job today, you look like you worked hard.

00:29 I really want to give you a hug and praise you a bit, but right now my hands are covered in paint. If I gave you a hug right now, it would be a bit of a mess, wouldn’t it? Let’s put that aside for now.

00:48 How about you sit on this chair? Mh, yup, I spent the day painting. You want to see? Of course, go ahead. Good guess, I painted sunflowers today. When you look at the figures of sunflowers blooming towards the sun, you start to think about whether or not they’ll be able to turn upwards and be able to live, right? They’re my favorite flower.

01:30 But since I met you, there’s another reason that I like them, though. That’s still confidential information, though. Haha, nope, you can’t sulk~ Someday, I’ll thoroughly explain it to you, okay?

01:58 Ah, speaking of, Theo said that my art changed since I met you. He said that, compared to before, my art changed into something that moves your heart whenever you see it.

02:13 Up until I met you, it felt like a part of my emotions were sleeping dormant within my heart. There was neither anger nor envy, as if it was merely an empty sea. And within that cruel and gray world, I quietly painted. Silent and still.

02:43 But then the world changed. But then I met you, fell in love in with you, and experienced so many emotions. Even so, there are many emotions that I’m not very good at handling yet. Like surprising things, and surely, distressing things have also multiplied.

03:12 But still, I have no intentions of returning to the way I was before meeting you. Even if there are surprises and regrets, the joy I’ve found from loving you exceeds all of those things. I think loving you right now, is dearest to me. Something that is precious, and something that I never want to lose.

03:48 Don’t smile at me so gently. Even though my hands are smeared with paint like this, I’ll be unable to resist hugging you.

04:04 Ah — I didn’t think about you hugging me first. Hey, hold me tighter? …. Your heart is beating so fast… why is it pounding so hard?

04:34 Haha, sorry for teasing you. At this point, I understand well enough why your heart is pounding. Because, my heart is pounding for the same reason.

Bring your face...a little closer. Kiss Because I like you so much, there’s no way my heart wouldn’t beat quickly, is there?

05:16 More... I want to make your heart race more. I want… more of you. Tonight, won’t you listen to my selfishness?

An Especially Distracting Work Time:

00:00 Piano music, chair creaks as Vincent sits down.

00:08 Since my hands are covered in paint, I can’t touch you. So tonight, why don’t you touch me instead? I’m always wanting you and taking the lead, so I thought once in a while you should be able to do what you want instead.

00:38 Do you want to kiss? Okay. Haha, being kissed by you, from some reason it feels very new. Your face turned red. But this isn’t the end, is it?

01:08 What’s wrong? You’re too embarrassed so you’re stopping here? My bad, I was selfishly teasing you. I’ll end it here. Looks like I’m unable to do anything that troubles you. And besides, I can’t wait anymore. I give up too. I want to rile you up more with my own hands.

01:53 Can you wait a bit for me? Vincent washes his hands.

02:13 Mn, I washed my hands, so now I can touch you as much as I want.

Hm? My hands are cold? It’s probably because of the water. Then, warm them up with your body heat. Is that okay? No?

02:51 Haha, I don’t know what you’re embarrassed about. Ah, you said that’s okay? You’re...really good at making me flustered. Lend me your arm?

03:18 Your skin is really pretty. Is it okay if I kiss your body? I don’t have to ask? I know that, but for some reason, I want to ask each time. When I’m in front of your beautiful self, I think “ah, it is really okay for me to touch?”

04:00 Since you are dear to me, it seems like I’ve become insatiable. If you’re scared, kiss tell me, okay? I want to make you more flushed.

04:21 Don’t turn away, kiss look at me clearly. You’re making a really provocative face right now. You’re making such a cute face — what should I do? “What should you do?”, you say, haha. Is there a limit on how adorable you can be?

05:07 Give more of your body to me. More and more, I want to make you feel good.

05:23 Hey, that’s okay, right?

An Especially Provocative Bloodsucking:

00:00 Piano music.

00:15 It’s okay if our breathing is messy, it feels like you and I are melting together. This isn’t the first time we’ve touched, but for some reason, it somehow feels like the first time all over again. Surely, we’ll continue like this in the future as well.

00:54 Ah, if you embrace me so tightly, I won’t be able to keep calm. You understand what I mean, right? I won’t be able to resist biting you. Eh? It’s okay to bite? If you say so with such a cute face, I can’t hold back any longer.

01:40 Okay, I’ll be as gentle as I can, so please give me everything you have to give. He bites you.

Your blood really is sweet. Are you okay? It feels good so you’re fine, you say. I’m glad. I feel the same way. It feels good.

02:40 It feels so good that it I’m not careful, I might steal away your everything.

It’s okay. Stay with me. Our hands intertwined like this — until you say you’re sick of it — I’m never letting you go.

03:09 So, kiss, drown in me. In this night with only the two of us, drown in it. I’m always looking at only you. So you too, look at only me — pierce me with that beautiful gaze.  

An Especially Sweet Good Night:

00:00 Soft piano music. Sheets rustling.

00:17 Hm? You woke up? Ah, it’s still the middle of the night, so it’s okay to go back to sleep. Here, I’ll hold you.

00:40 Eh? Why are you crying? Did you have a bad dream?? Or, does it hurt where I bit you?? Or —

Huh? You were so happy to see me beside you when you woke up that you cried… haha, you’re seriously….

01:19 Now, now, don’t cry. Even if they’re tears of happiness, I really don’t want to see any tears on your cheeks. I want you to always be smiling with happiness.

I think the thing that suits you most, is a smile that is like a cloudless sky. For the sake of protecting your smile, I’ll do anything.

01:58 In times when you can’t smile, like when the entire world has become your enemy, I’ll always be on your side. Or when the entire world is ignoring your tears, I’ll quickly wipe them away with these palms. Or when the entire world rejects you, I’ll bundle you up in my arms.

02:44 No matter what happens, this is an unchanging promise. So remember it, okay.

02:58 Haha, you finally smiled for me. Mn, just as I said, a smile suits you the best. I really like it — I love it.

03:24 I’ll always be embracing you like this, so rest easy and sleep well. Kiss I hope you have a gentle dream. Good night.

Epilogue ～ To The Person I Love The Most In This World ～

00:00 Soft music.

00:08 Within this quiet night, I was thinking as I gazed at your sleeping face. As I wished to become stronger to protect you, I realized how weak I was. You are dear to me, but it is also mixed with a bit heartrending pain.

00:32 I wished for eternity, and learned how time flows on without compassion. Since I fell in love with you, I’ve only become more perplexed by how, at some point, I had suddenly developed conflicting emotions.

00:50 But, I can no longer return to how I was before I loved you. Because I had experienced the happiness of smiling with you; because I experienced the warmth of being with you; and because a desire to keep living by your side was born. So, even if I’m confused or surprised, I’ll continue moving forward. For the sake of your happiness, I’ll work as hard as it takes. With these clumsy, unsteady steps, I want to walk forward by your side, from now on, and always.

01:44 And while I was thinking this, suddenly the sunflowers that I had painted entered my periphery. The reason that I like sunflowers is because of how their figures blooming towards the sun cheer me up — and I haven’t told you yet, but the second reason that was born when I met you, is the meaning of sunflowers.

02:18 In the language of flowers, sunflowers mean “I am looking at only you.” They really resemble my feelings towards you.

02:32 Even if the seasons change and flowers of summer are wilting. Even if cruel time rips apart our intertwined hands. Even if this body fades away; I will always be looking at you, and only you. This is the love that I embrace as I continue to live.

03:12 I will always, to the point of being a hopeless fool, always love you. When morning comes, as well as for all of eternity.

03:33 Soft music continues.

Cast Talk:

I am Yoshihiko Aramaki, the voice of Vincent van Gogh. I’ll be doing a little bit of audio commentary and answering some questions, so please continue to listen to this track as well!

Ah, first part is asking me to share my thoughts on the recording process. Ah well, this recording, makes your body really hot. Ahaha there are various meanings to that.

In terms of situational CD’s, I don’t really have much experience, and there were a lot of embarrassing lines and sound effects, and I seriously totally turned red. I read the lines with a lot of embarrassment, but in the end, I did it. Yeah, uh, yeah I hope you also think that Vincent was done well, yup.

Second, if you became a vampire and had eternity, what would you do?

To be honest, I don’t really like the concept of eternity? Since everyone would die, and then you would become lonely, again and again you will lose people as you live, but you yourself cannot properly be dead. Ah, but then again if I had eternity, well hm, what should I do. What would I do?

On top of a mountain...I want to look over the people of the world below… sort of like a hermit. Yeah, I want to be a wise hermit! Yup.

Third is a question about how if I was a painter like Vincent, what sort of painting would I make, and whether or not I’m good at art.

Ah hmm, if I was a painter like Vincent, first I would want to make some human portraits. Well, I’m just average at art — I think that I’m at a level normal people are at, so haha I’m not really that good. But something like human portraits, and landscape paintings like Vincent does, something like that? I want to make something like that.

Ahh, well I’m not good at art but if it’s a painting like Vincent, like van Gogh would do, then surely it’ll take an enormous amount of time for me to accomplish one painting. Honestly I’m not that particularly passionate about art, so I want to take my time when making portraits, or landscapes, or stuff like that.

Fourth question. To the listeners of the IkeVamp Situational CD, can you please show off Vincent’s strong points? Okay, the character that I play, Vincent, is a seriously pure and innocent, angelic-type character. Please pat and assure him, and love him to your heart’s content!! He is in your care!!!

The end. This was Vincent van Gogh’s voice actor, Yoshihiko Aramaki!

[raereview]

A Writer in Her Early Twenties Writing About Smoking Cigarettes and Feeling Inferior? …Groundbreaking

an essay I wrote in November of 2020 as I was nearing graduation from Columbia College-Chicago

You know when a bug gets stuck on its back and its little legs start flailing and it  frantically rocks back and forth trying to flip back over? That’s how I’ve been feeling recently.

I started smoking cigarettes again to calm me down because smoking weed always makes me have an unwanted existential crisis. In high school, I loved smoking cigarettes because it made me feel like an adult. I dreamed of being someone like Carrie Bradshaw; smoking cigarettes at parties and being so terribly interesting that I only had to write one column a week to pay for a lavish lifestyle. That dream was only amplified when an English teacher wrote on one of my assignments in red ink that she wanted to read my memoir one day. After that, I smoked cigarettes my friends would steal from their stepdads, while I waited impatiently to turn 18 so I could be an adult, leave my hometown, and become a real writer.

Now I’m 21 and can legally buy cigarettes in the city of Chicago. I bought a pack of American Spirits two days after the 2020 Presidential Election because my anxiety was getting high and I couldn’t. I tell myself they are better than regular cigarettes— even though it clearly says on the package they aren’t. Just holding a cigarette is sex to me (I never describe things as sex, but my first Creative Writing professor used to, and she sounded so fucking cool when she did). I always feel dizzy after the first couple hits. I can’t imagine that’s normal. I know that weed is probably better for my body, but I like that no one judges me for not inhaling correctly like they do with weed. I can let the smoke barely touch my lungs before I puff it out of my lips, and no one says a goddamn thing. And so maybe it’s just the action of smoking, but I always feel calmer by the time I put out the cigarette, leaving behind that black mark and bits of ash.

On the 13th of November, Phoebe Bridgers and Maggie Rogers released a cover of “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls because Bridgers tweeted that she would do so if Biden won the election. I didn’t recognize the song based off the title, but after a quick google search, I remembered hearing it on the radio growing up. It’s got one of those choruses that feels like it was written to be screamed at the top of your lungs in the car with the windows rolled down. I paid $1.50 for the song on Bandcamp (the proceeds went to Fair Fight), then I grabbed my pack of cigarettes, and went out to my back porch to listen to it. I’d barely been able to get out of bed all week, but I knew the cover needed my full attention because I recently became a “stan” of Phoebe Bridgers.

For a while I felt as if Phoebe was someone I knew through a friend of a friend; we ran in the same circles, but never really crossed paths. I adore Hayley Williams and Phoebe’s vocals were on my favorite song on her new album, most of the music I listen to is indie and makes you want to cry which is how you could describe her music, and her lowercase tweets always showed up on my timeline. I knew I’d become acquainted with her eventually, I just wanted to be ready; I had a premonition she’d change my life. I wanted us to fall into each other at the perfect moment.

Sometime in late June or early July, I was laying on the futon in my sister’s spare bedroom, staring at my phone in the darkness while everyone was asleep. The quiet nights of West Texas creep me out when I’ve gone months in Chicago without a moment of silence. I don’t remember what I was initially looking for on Spotify when her solo, sophomore album Punisher came up on the “recommended” section. I hit play because it felt like Spotify was a friend trying to set me up with her for the millionth time, telling me to just trust them and to meet her. It felt like the perfect moment, spilling our guts under the covers, “What if I told you I feel like I know you, but we never met?”

By “Moon Song” and “Chinese Satellite” I was silently weeping, trying not to wake up my nephews in the next room. Punisher made me feel introspective and existential, and the record almost gave me the same floating, panic feeling that weed gives me (but it’s cool when she does it). The strings from “Graceland Too” and “Savior Complex” swam inside my bloodstream and lifted me off the futon, off the part of Texas that I suspect she writes about hating.  I was 16 when I had my first weed-induced existential crisis. My friends drove me around town in an attempt calm me down and I kept asking them if I was dead; Punisher feels like the soundtrack to that car ride. Receiving an impressive 8.7/10 on Pitchfork, the publication’s Sam Sodomsky describes her songwriting on the album as “candid, multi-dimensional, slyly psychedelic, and full of heart.” There are moments as a writer where a line makes me mad because of how well it described something I have yet to put words to, and Bridgers made me furious when she sang on the final track “I Know the End”: “When I get back I’ll lay around Then I’ll get up and lay back down Romanticize a quiet life There’s no place like my room.” It’s so simple, but it perfectly described the way I can get so anxious that I spend most of my days in bed, convincing myself I’ll never not feel this way.

That’s at least how I’d describe my recent state of constant anxiety. I know it started before the election, but constantly checking news sites seemed to amplify everything. I think the thing I have been most anxious about (personally, not politically) is the fact that I’m moving back home to my hometown after I graduate next month. I finally became an adult, but I will be graduating with my Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing, and I have no job prospects and no memoir in the making. I try to remain optimistic, but the catastrophic thinking my brain does is very convincing and tells me that if I can’t find a job in my field that I’m a bad writer, and if I’m a bad writer I’ll never be understood, and if I’ll never be understood I should just quit writing now, and if I quit writing then I should just lay in bed and not go to my zoom classes. It’s a long series of pointless, self-deprecating “and if’s”, but once they start it feels like telling yourself that you’re only going to smoke a couple cigarettes, and then you end up going through a whole pack in a few days and all you’re left with is regret and a headache. So, during that week of bed-ridden anxiety, I was thankful that my new love for Bridgers was stronger than my imposter syndrome. If I was doomed to be misunderstood, I wanted to listen to a writer who I feel like I understand.

When I went outside to listen the song, I quickly remembered that it was November in Chicago and my fingers shoved themselves deeper into my jacket sleeves. I managed to peak them out just enough to light a cigarette and hit play on the song. I was sure I looked very dramatic to the men doing construction on the apartment next door: a girl in her 20’s, smoking with her headphones in, staring off into the distance. The cover initially sounds more stripped and melancholic than the original, just Bridgers light vocals and an acoustic guitar. My legs were already shivering, but all the hairs on my body stood up higher when Rogers came in and their voices molded together. I don’t know her music, but the twang in Maggie’s voice that carries the second verse was comforting to my southern roots. I took a long drag when she sang “When everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you're alive.” If I didn’t know better, I would have thought this cover was the original.

“Iris” is a song I’ve always known all the words to, but I had never really listened to the lyrics. The song was written by Goo Goo Doll’s John Rzeznik for the movie City of Angels (1998) staring Nicholas Cage. Rzeznik told Dan MacIntosh of Songfacts that when he wrote the song he was inspired by Cage’s situation in the film and thought “Wow! What an amazing thing it must be like to love someone so much that you give up everything to be with them.” Phoebe Bridgers’ songwriting feels like it comes from the same universe as “Iris”, specifically her song “ICU”. Both songs could technically be described as love songs, but I feel that a disservice to both.

They differ from traditional love songs because write about it in a realistic way, almost as if the thesis of both is “I know everything is awful and we could hate each other one day, but I want to be with you anyways.” A line from the chorus of “Iris” almost says this exactly, but far more eloquently, “When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am,” and then verses repeat this sentiment of knowing the love could end, but wanting the love anyways. Bridgers’ songwriting in “ICU” comes at a relationship with the same approach. The verses describe things she thinks could complicate or end the relationship (the other person’s family, someone falling out of love, self-sabotage). Regardless, the refrain keeps repeating, “But I feel something when I see you”. All this to say that when Bridgers sings Rzeznik’s lyrics, they feel as if they are her own.

The Goo Goo Dolls must have also thought Phoebe would do the song justice as their twitter account replied to Bridger’s original tweet a few days after Biden was announced the projected winner, saying “We’re waiting…” with the gif of Judge Judy motioning “hurry up”. When I read or hear really good writing, I selfishly question if writing is even actually what I’m meant to be doing… if it was something that should have stayed a hobby, or a poorly constructed daydream of becoming Carrie Bradshaw. 

Recently, I wrote a paragraph about one of my favorite albums with the intention of writing a whole essay about it. However, after that I got stuck. Every time I tried starting the next sentence, I hit the backspace button until it was gone. I spent two whole days watching interviews with the artist, reading reviews of the album, listening to the whole record on repeat for hours, and I couldn’t get anything more than that paragraph. The words simply would not come to me. Moments like that, combined with rejection emails from literary magazines or hearing Bridgers sing lines that take my breath away, I wonder if I should keep fueling my love for something that will always love someone else more or if I should quit?

I listened to the cover of “Iris” on repeat until my cigarette was out. The big tree in my backyard is barren because of the new season, and so now more of my neighborhood is visible. It was around 4p.m. and the sun was already starting to set thanks to daylight savings (until I wrote that sentence, I didn’t think to consider my anxiousness and my need to stay in bed all day could also be attributed to seasonal depression). I’ve always been obsessed with sunrises and sunsets. I know I probably write about them too much: how they make the whole world “glow” orange, the transitions of the colors in the sky, how they always represent an end or a beginning. My hometown has the best sunsets and sunrises: the land is so flat you can see all the way to the horizon, there are no clunky buildings blocking your view. I thought maybe this sunset would spark inspiration in me, so turned to go toward the edge of my porch to see more of it, and for a second I looked at the windowsill I rested my lighter and cigarettes on.

Lying there was a fly stuck on its back. Before they fixed the insolation, our apartment was infested with so many flies that all summer the surfaces of my home were perpetually covered in fly guts. The fly’s little body twitched frantically as it tried to push itself over. I felt pity for the fly even though others of its kind spent the warmer months buzzing in my ear and making me want to move. As I watched the insect, I realized that my anxiety doesn’t feel like drowning or spiraling or falling. It feels like flailing— like a bug stuck on its back trying desperately to get right side up again. It’s kind of pathetic how much it feels like the end of the world. I might not be the first person to think of that, but the metaphor came to me so clearly that it took my breath away. Quickly, I used my lighter to flick the fly back onto its legs. We stared at each other for a moment. I know flies don’t have facial expressions, but I swear, it looked confused. I thought maybe it heard horror stories about me from its friends about the sweaty girl who kills them with rolled up newspaper and wondered why I helped it. Finally, it turned from me and crawled away in the opposite direction.

That fly made me like a god, but more importantly, it made me feel like a writer. I found the words again. Relating to an insect isn’t exactly Carrie Bradshaw or Phoebe Bridgers, but I was excited. I immediately ran inside and started this essay. My frozen fingers started to warm up as I typed everything out. It felt like writing and I were a married couple who had sex for the first time in months; we got our spark back. And I know writers aren’t supposed to wait for inspiration to start writing, and I know this doesn’t make me as good as Phoebe Bridgers, and I know I still don’t have any job offers, and I know I didn’t cure my anxiety but writing this felt really good.

When I wrote this essay, someone I showed it to said they “got my angst”, but not my love for writing. Maybe that’s because I don’t always love writing in the explosive, epic way I sometimes think I should? I love writing with the kind of love that I’m told is in good marriages; the love is a choice. There are days when I can’t stand a word I put on the page, but there are also the days where I find perfect metaphors for sunsets or anxiety or bugs or Phoebe Bridgers. There are days I lay in the warmth of someone else’s words as if they were the sun. There are days where I can’t stand go to class after turning an essay in because I don’t want people to associate the person on the page with the person sitting across the room from of them. However, even on days when I can’t stand writing or being a writer, I still wake up, put on my fake glasses that make me feel like an intellectual, I grab my New Yorker tote, I write silly lyrics I think of on the train, I read someone else’s work and remind myself they had 20 drafts of this I’ll never see, I reread my own work and see if any lines make me catch my breath, and I write.

I write because I still have the desire to be understood. I write to try and understand why I can’t stop loving it even when I hate it. I write because I fear one day the inferiority will be too much and I won’t wake up and choose to still love writing.

I still listen to Iris on repeat because the lyrics are as painfully relatable as they are catchy. At its core, the song is asking someone to understand. I think that’s what all I want, understanding. I want to know that someone else feels the same way I do about sunsets, or Carrie Bradshaw, or Punisher, or smoking cigarettes to look cool. If I write my truth, maybe someone will understand? Alexander Chee wrote in his How to Write an Autobiographical Novel that “To write is to sell a ticket to escape, not from the truth, but into it.” Maybe that’s why I don’t love being high because I feel like I am trying to escape the truth? Maybe that’s why I love Phoebe Bridgers’ songwriting and writing in general because it makes me feel like I am trying to escape into the truth? Maybe if I can make it to the truth, I’ll be understood? 

Maybe I’ll understand?

Sources: Bridgers, Phoebe. Lyrics to “Punisher.” Genius, 2020, genius.com/albums/Phoebe-bridgers/Punisher. Sodomsky, Sam. “Phoebe Bridgers: Punisher.” Pitchfork, Pitchfork, 22 June 2020, pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/phoebe-bridgers-punisher/. Rzeznik, John. “Goo Goo Dolls – Iris.” Genius, 7 Apr. 1998, genius.com/Goo-goo-dolls-iris-lyrics. MacIntosh, Dan. “John Rzeznik of Goo Goo Dolls.” ShieldSquare Captcha, 12 June 2013, www.songfacts.com/blog/interviews/john-rzeznik-of-goo-goo-dolls. Chee, Alexander. How to Write an Autobiographical Novel. Bloomsbury, 2019.

[beca-mitchell]

what remains of our love (1/10)

Summary: Chloe spent years waiting for Beca Mitchell. She will continue to do so, even after fate deals them a cruel blow. Amnesia.

A/N: This is pretty experimental. I was debating posting this, but this is essentially how I would have written remember the day, if the tables were turned. What would have happened if I decided that Beca would be the one to lose her memory? I also feel like my writing style has changed significantly since last year. While I don't know if I'll be able to update as frequently as I did for remember the day, I promise you that I will try my best.

Read on AO3.

It’s not that they’ve been fighting a lot , but –

Well.

They’ve been fighting more than usual. And their usual isn’t a lot to begin with.

Beca’s career is demanding, that much Chloe knows. Beca is fairly famous and in the public spotlight enough that it grates on both their personal lives just a little bit.

Chloe is the opposite of demanding. She’s happy to sit back and let Beca take the reins because with Beca Mitchell, she knows better than to push or Beca will retreat into her head.

Even after years of being together – even just as friends – Chloe knows this much about her fiancée.

So that’s why she lets Beca go off to work distractedly, smiling into the brief kiss Beca presses to her lips.

She tries not to let it completely destroy her that Beca forgets to say “I love you.”

––––––

Beca feels the oddest sensation ripple up her back - like she’s forgotten something crucial. She almost twists to face the closed door of the apartment she shares with Chloe.

Instead, she’s distracted by the lingering tingle on her lips and the heaviness of her messenger bag – both reminders that she’s going to be late for her meeting with her manager and publicist if she doesn’t get going.

––––––

How they get together is almost completely cliché’d in how expected it is.

It’s because of singing , because of course there isn’t enough of it in their lives.

It’s fairly simple: Beca finds inspiration in Chloe Beale, so she writes a song about it. Chloe finds said song and demands an impromptu performance. Beca performs it, grumbling all the way. Chloe cries. Beca cries. They kiss.

The longer story kind of goes like this:

It’s more of a purge of emotion. Beca had grown to finally settle down with her rampant emotions and she let them run free across pages and pages of half-finished songs.

Being Chloe’s roommate was equal parts devastating and enlightening.

Beca never expected Chloe to find the music – it kind of just happened. Chloe had turned to her, holding up sheets of paper.

And her eyes – the way she had looked at Beca such that Beca simply crumbled under the pressure.

(Though, reflecting now, the pressure to–to tell Chloe that she loved her? To finally ensure that her deeply held secret burst out of her in the form of a song?

In short, it had taken minimal convincing on Chloe’s part.)

By the end of the song, Beca had been convinced that Chloe’s eyes were going to dry out by how hard she stared at Beca, unblinking.

“Who…” Chloe had cleared her throat. “Who did you write that for?”

It’s not often that Chloe gives her the reins to go out on any kind of emotional limb, so it throws Beca that Chloe’s choosing now to do this – to ensure that Beca’s blush remains on her face.

But as Beca tilted her head to face Chloe head-on, she had been reminded of all of Chloe’s own vulnerabilities and finds it in her to sympathize. She was kind of reminded of herself in an odd way, like she had been looking in a strange mirror of her own reality. Chloe looked nervous, her fists clenched in her lap, like she was resisting something; resisting from saying something; doing something.

“Chloe,” Beca said softly. “Chloe, it’s – you – you can’t imagine that I’d possibly have feelings for anybody else but you.”

It came out a little more stilted than she would have liked, but Beca prided herself on her honesty, not necessarily how her honesty came out.

Chloe had kissed her first, but they both agreed that Beca was the one who initiated it.

And the rest is history.

––––––

Chloe receives the call on her lunch break.

She fumbles with her thermos and nearly drops the entire stack of folders she's carrying.

Holding patients in the palm of her hand while Beca's life essentially hangs in the balance.

She can't even cry until she's in Aubrey's car and even then, only a few tears escape.

She's numb when she hears about the accident. She remains numb.

––––––

Now, in the hospital, two days later, Chloe isn't sure how the hours or days pass, exactly. Just that they do and she can't keep track anymore. She sits and fiddles absently with her ring, weighing it in her palm. Around her, hushed voices echo, but she can't be bothered to make out what her friends are saying until they address her directly.

“Chloe, you need to get some rest. It’s already been a couple of days and–”

"I don't care," she interrupts, almost on instinct. "If Beca dies, I don't want to live.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Aubrey says immediately, anger coloring her voice. “You know that Beca would literally find a way to smack some sense into you if she could right now.”

Chloe glares hard at her feet, knowing that Aubrey is right as usual. She tries not to let Emily and Amy’s concerned expressions get to her, but it’s making the worst kind of panic rise in her.

It’s all very dramatic and tense, because of course Beca Mitchell somehow gets the last word in and drives the most minor of wedges between Chloe and her best friend.

She’s sure that Beca would be very proud of herself somehow and makes a note to tell her.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe finally says. “I…I shouldn’t have said that. I was…” She swallows, battling back a hasty sob.

"Beca will make it," she hears Aubrey say, somewhat distantly. It floats through her ears slowly like she’s sitting far away. "She’s always been a fighter, especially adept at getting on my nerves."

It’s meant to bring levity and it does , but the memory of everything they’ve been through together – not just as Beca-and-Chloe , but through their entire history makes Chloe burst into tears.

“Jesus, Aubrey,” Amy says faintly. “Ease into it.”

“Chloe,” Emily whispers, like she’s afraid Chloe will break. “Chloe, please stop crying.”

“You can’t just tell her to stop crying,” Amy points out helpfully. Or unhelpfully. Chloe’s never sure.

What she is sure of, however, is that this is probably the strangest group of misfits this hospital’s ever seen, so she lets herself cry at the thought of potentially losing the love of her life while the world crumbles around her.

The one person who could possibly pull her together is in the emergency room (again), fighting for her life and all Chloe wants is to selfishly be there alongside Beca.

All she wants is Beca.

Ultimately, there isn’t much conversation during the remainder of the wait. Chloe notes absently that the walls seem to close in on them. She watches Aubrey fidget; watches Emily’s leg shake; watches Fat Amy flirt with a doctor. All of this seems to happen in slow motion.

Every once in a while Emily nervously asks Chloe one of three questions, the first being “Are you alright, Chloe?” The second, “Do you want a glass of water?” and the third, “Do you want to listen to music?” All with a hopeful, sympathetic smile.

Beca is dying.

We haven’t even gotten married yet.

The thought makes her tremble.

And now we never might.

That thought makes her ache with the most unbearable pain. It starts in her chest and spreads like an icy burn clawing through her veins.

So really, all Chloe can say is “No” to each of those questions.

For once, music doesn’t fill her mind. She’s met with silence where Beca’s voice should be.

––––––

It is two and a half weeks after the accident. Chloe trudges slowly into Beca’s hospital room, still shaking off the dredges of rain from her clothes – a surprising California rainfall.

It’s fitting, she thinks.

As per her usual course of action, Chloe slowly ensures Beca’s covers are tucked neatly around her. That Beca’s hands are moisturized.

(Aubrey quirks her eyebrows at her when she first sees Chloe pull out a bottle of hand lotion out of a massive bag of Beca’s favorite things.

Chloe shrugs, rubbing her hands together before picking up Beca’s hand to gently rub lotion into the soft skin. “She likes it. I like it.”

She tries to ignore the sympathetic glance.)

Then, Chloe lets her gaze track up slowly to Beca’s face. A few minor cuts have since healed from when Beca was first brought into the hospital. Faint scarring remains, but it’ll fade with time, Chloe knows.

She’s less concerned about the cosmetics of it all because Beca will always be beautiful to her. A few tiny cuts mean nothing to her. Chloe has had her own share of bruises and cuts. Growing up, her mother always told her that the real healing happened on the inside.

Chloe is so cognizant of that, especially now.

She feels like she’s been rearranged at a visceral, molecular level. From the moment she received the call to now, two and a half weeks later, she has been barely keeping herself afloat. She struggles with what small items to bring from their home to keep at Beca’s bedside. Maybe a trinket or two, she tells herself.

She might have brought a couple pairs of Beca’s headphones. They sit comfortably on Beca’s bedside. Chloe tries not to compare the way the headphone wires look compared to the multitude of other wires and tubes coming out of Beca’s body in a seemingly endless way.

“I miss you,” Chloe murmurs, finally pulling her usual chair up to Beca’s side. “I mean, I know you’re right here…” she pulls Beca’s hand into her own, marvelling in the solid weight and warmth.

She presses a kiss to Beca’s knuckles, lingering as she contemplates her lover.

Beca is the same and yet, barely recognizable. She gently plays with Beca's fingers, finding some solace in how easily Beca's hand still slots against her own. She's soothing her own fears in a way, perhaps selfishly, but she hopes that she can convey to Beca how much she loves her and misses her by way of touch. 

She observes things about Beca too, unable to stop herself from looking at Beca now that she has the opportunity.

(She did her best not to blatantly stare at Beca when they weren't dating and had greedily taken every chance she got while they were dating.)

She loves everything about Beca Mitchell and there is something exceptionally peaceful about her in this moment. The smoothness of Beca’s forehead. The lack of a frown. It almost makes Chloe laugh with how much she misses Beca’s trademark petulance. Her general disdain for fame.

“But where are you?” Chloe asks softly, beginning to cry.If Beca were there, she’d say something along the lines of “I’m right here, dummy” and they’d laugh about it.

Instead, all Chloe gets is the oppressive silence and stark white walls to keep her company while she waits.

And Beca —

Beca’s there. Kind of.

She’s asleep, Chloe tells herself. She’s resting. Just wait.

Chloe waited for Beca for years. She can wait a while longer.

––––––

When Beca comes to, all she sees is light.

Light everywhere and all around her.

It makes her immediately want to shut her eyes and drift off again, but something tells her drifting off immediately wouldn’t be the best idea. Especially not when it feels like she’s been through hell and back just to wake up.

She was never a morning person.

The second thing she sees is the top of a woman’s head – all unruly red curls and nothing else. It strikes her as odd because she feels like she should know this woman, but she doesn’t. Instead, the strangest hollowness fills her chest, briefly making her forget about the piercing pain in her side.

Like there is something crucial missing.

Something integral.

A series of disjointed notes in place of where a smooth harmony should fit.

The pain comes rushing back all at once, making her jolt.

Two things happen at once: the mysterious stranger sits upright and all Beca can see are endless sky-blue eyes.

Chloe...Chloe?

Chloe Beale, sitting by her bedside, holding her hand.

Beca’s confused, if anything. Last she remembers, she was storming away from Chloe and all of the Bellas and leaving them behind–

Second, Beca can do little to contain the scream of pain she lets out when another searing pain floats through her side, drifting up into her head almost lazily in how deeply it assaults her senses. She wrenches her hand away from Chloe so she can raise it to grip her head in agony. The motion itself jostles her entire body, which sets off a chain of events: fire spreads up her side and she figures belatedly that she probably has a broken bone or two. Though the how is murky to her.

Unbearable.

Chloe.

The two thoughts war in her mind until she finally sees black again.

––––––

Chloe blinks awake, wondering if her phone alarm went off. She's typically conscious enough of her phone's alarms and chooses not to set them whenever she visits Beca at the hospital. She realizes then that her phone is completely still and silent and it's Beca's hand squeezing her hand tightly. When she looks up, heart rate increasing, she meets Beca's eyes immediately. Beca, whose body jerks slightly, like she's alarmed by all the tubing around her – all the machines. Beca's eyes latch onto hers in a frantic manner and she whimpers a little in pain.

Beca rips her hand away from Chloe just as a couple nurses rush into the room, drawn by the sound of Beca's machines beeping erratically. Chloe stands shakily. "Beca," she calls softly. "Baby, breathe," she tries.

Beca looks completely out of it. It scares Chloe - the blankness in Beca's eyes. The way Beca is reacting. The way Beca writhes in pain. Chloe inhales sharply, allowing herself to be steered a little further away from Beca's bed.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe asks desperately, barely cognizant of the way the attendant’s hands come to grip her upper arms to pull her away from Beca’s side. Panic rises in her, but the more rational side tells her to calm down or Beca won’t get the help she needs.

Help that isn’t Chloe at the moment.

But–

But Beca had been awake. Conscious.

Alive.

Chloe had felt the telltale twitch of Beca’s hand. The sudden warmth that had spread through her own body when Beca finally made a sound. The tiniest of grunts, followed by a cough.

Chloe’s body had reacted instinctively, like the first greedy inhale of home after a long time away.

“Please,” she calls out, feeling her voice crack. A nurse guides her just outside the hospital room and the door shuts with the strangest sense of finality. Beca’s scream still rings sharp in her ear, like a cacophony of incomprehensible sound. Chloe finally focuses on the nurse in front of her, trying not to take stock of his sympathetic expression. “What happened?” she asks. “Why – she was just – she’s awake,” she says, unable to articulate any further.

Beca was awake – is awake.

She tries again. “Can’t I see her?”

“She’s probably in a lot of pain,” he explains quietly. Like he knows better than Chloe.

(And he probably does, Chloe can concede that. All her education flies out the window. Anything she ever learned about the human brain flies out the window.

For all intents and purposes, she’s probably useless as a music therapist here. She can't imagine even coming up with a plan. All her calm facades disappear.

It’s irrational, she knows.

Especially now. But somebody knowing Beca better than her is almost laughable. But it’s the reality of this situation and there’s nothing she can do.)

“–shock to her. It’ll be best if we just run some vitals, give her some medication. She’s probably going to be out for a little while more.”

“You’re putting her back under,” Chloe says numbly.

“Not like that,” he assures her. “The painkillers will probably knock her out, but she’ll be up again and I’m sure she’ll be calling for you in no time.”

Chloe tamps down her rising hysterics. “But she was–”

“Ms. Beale, you need to calm down.” He reaches out a hand cautiously. “Can I help you back to the waiting room?”

“No, I –” For one dizzying moment, Chloe imagines what it had been like, thinking she had lost Beca for good.

The love of her life.

Her soulmate.

Her partner.

Her best friend.

“I’m okay,” she says faintly. She tries to smile at him - this nurse who just wants to do his job in peace - and alleviate the concern in his eyes. “I just need to–” She heaves a breath, feeling the mildest of panic attacks begin. Pain blooms in her chest. As minute as it is, it’s there and she’s so aware of that fact. She can’t even imagine the kind of pain Beca is in.

“Do you need to sit down?” he asks gently. “Are your friends here? You can wait for Ms. Mitchell with them.”

“No,” Chloe says heavily. “I came alone. I’m alone.” Her words feel thick on her tongue, like she can taste them. When she flicks her tongue out to taste her suddenly dry lips, she tastes salt and realizes she's crying.

She's crying and the one person who learned how to properly wipe away her tears isn't there to hold her.

She has never felt more alone.

–––––

tbc // ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 | ch. 5 | ch. 6 | ch. 7 | ch. 8 | ch. 9 | ch. 10

[porthavenhq]

Welcome to Porthaven, Ellie! We can’t wait to meet Tristan Morello!

Please look over the acceptance checklist and submit your blog within the next 24 hours. If there is a problem or a prior obligation and you need more time than provided, just message the main and we will gladly extend!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　OUT OF CHARACTER　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Name: Ellie Pronouns: She/Her Age: 21+ Timezone: EDT Activity Level: I have work from 9am-5pm - I lurk during that time, maybe post if work is really slow. My evenings are usually free though. I’ll be on and post at least once a day. Taking into account (sometimes sudden) muse drops, I’d probably give myself a 5/10. Triggers: N/A Anything Else: I’m so psyched for this RP! If you need any help with lists or anything like that, feel free to ask (I enjoy cultivating and updating lists for some reason) *shrug face*

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　CHARACTER INFORMATION　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Name: Tristan Morello Age: 07/21/1997 Gender: Male FC: Marlon Teixeira

Character Biography

The story of Tristan’s birth and subsequent abandonment was unremarkable. His father was a businessman, in the States for only a few days at a conference. There, he met Tristan’s mother: a charismatic, enigmatic beauty. Allured and intrigued by each other, the fling was over as soon as it had started: dinner, drinks, and a night neither of them have much of a memory of. With no father in the picture and her own career in mind, Tristan’s mother made a decision: she would carry the child, but that was all. Within hours being discharged from the hospital and not wanting to go through the time-consuming wait and process of an adoption agency, Tristan’s mother drove out of state, left the infant outside of a police department, and then promptly left. It wasn’t half an hour before the baby’s cries attracted the officers inside. They searched the area for an hour or so before contacting Child Protective Services. With nothing except the infant’s clothes and blanket, CPS named the child and had a physician look him over to officially give an estimated DOB. Unsurprisingly, the doctor told them that the baby was only a few days old. After some investigations which turned up nothing, Tristan started making his rounds in foster homes.

As with any system, Tristan was placed in good homes and bad homes. Homes that obviously were in it for the stipend; homes that truly wanted him to feel safe and wanted. However, all of them were merely temporary solutions. As a child, he was told that each home was a “new start”. Despite social workers telling him this wasn’t his fault, as a child, Tristan felt as though he was always doing something wrong and that’s why none of the fosters would adopt him. He felt as though he had to keep reinventing himself to be a more loveable, ideal child, even though he didn’t have quite a grasp on what either meant. By the time he was ten, he was starting to experience a flimsy sense of self from all the changing personas of what he thought a good, adoptable child would be.

There was one beacon of hope for him. When he was eleven, he was placed into a home of a couple who seemingly couldn’t have children of their own. For two years, it seemed as though his dedication to cultivating an ideal child had paid off. They seemed to love and adore him. He felt safe and well cared for. As his third year with them approached, Tristan started to seriously think (and hope) that they would end up adopting him. However, he let his hopes get the better of him: the couple ended up conceiving. As the pregnancy went on, the prospect and preparations for their biological child slowly started to push Tristan out of the picture. Of course, Tristan did his best to keep face and keep up his performance, but there was little he could do to win back their full attention or affection. He didn’t know what he had done wrong. It just got worse when the child arrived. With their attention on a newborn, teenage Tristan started to get lost in the shuffle, which stung, especially from them.

Tristan realized that all his careful cultivation had been in vain. He had tried his best and had still failed. He found himself unable (or perhaps a combination of unable and unwilling) to articulate why he was feeling so hurt. So, angry, jealous, and no longer held back by wanting to present as an ideal, adoptable child Tristan tried “being himself” and doing what he could to focus his foster parents’ attention back on himself. He started hanging out with the wrong crowd at school, started playing hooky, and hanging out on the streets. His grades dropped, he got into a few fights, stayed out late, and was even found with a cigarette on him. Of course, his attempts at getting the couple focused on him again worked the opposite way he wanted it to, and the couple ended up returning him to the system. He didn’t realize until later that he did more harm than good to both himself, the family, and their relationship.

Back in the system, Tristan kept getting shuffled from home to home, now more frequently as he had given up trying to be good. Sinking into bitterness and cynicism, he became hard to handle and started to reject any idea that he would ever get adopted out of the system. Being “unadoptable” weighed on his mind, but he was unwilling to go back to being good only for his efforts to backfire on him again. He had learned his lesson and wouldn’t be taken in as the hopeful fool ever again. His destructive habits continued, slowly getting more severe until he finally became of age and got thrown out of the foster care system itself.

Ill-equipped to deal with life outside the system, Tristan promptly found himself homeless. Not that he cared, his time on the streets with “friends” had prepared him (to an extent) for this. His times roaming the tougher side of town had given him street smarts and resources that polite society usually rejected. Through connections and his own charm, he built up his own network that spanned a few towns and began couch surfing in exchange for labor. Other times, he was able to get small, part-time, or odd jobs. In some ways, he’s still a foster child being shuffled from house to house. Sometimes it’s a place on the street, but he puts himself there through his own resources and cunning. He doesn’t stay anywhere for long, just long enough to finish a job, satisfy his own desires, get enough money for food, and find his next connection. He doesn’t commit to anywhere or anyone. He knows what a mistake that is.

He’s known about Porthaven since being a child and has always been intrigued by the area’s acceptance of Mystiques. Finally, his network and his wanderings have brought him into town. Only time will tell if the people and places, like all others, will be temporary. Tristan’s not optimistic. More than likely, it will be yet another blip on the map. An X and a cross-off on a list. Another town for a few hookups, maybe a scam or two, a buffet, a small job…

Yes, Porthaven will be just another town to leech off of. Right?

Headcanons

One of Tristan’s favorite meals is spaghetti and meatballs. He also favors Olive Garden breadsticks.

Tristan likes hanging around places with trains (yard, tracks, stations) and the roofs of buildings.

Skills Tristan has picked up from drifting and just living his life have been: street smarts, juggling, lock picking, skateboarding, climbing, parkour, and flipping objects into their hands using their feet.

Tristan gives himself a new, street name for every home he’s lived in or town he’s drifted in and out of. Some of his nicknames include Milo, Mike, Fritz, Boris, Butch, Homer, Dan, Rags, and Bozo. This has not helped with his vague sense of roots, self, or identity.

While trying to be a productive member of society and not starve, Tristan has worked many odd, part-time jobs including landscaping, handy work, cleaning, cashier, pet sitter, and waiter.

Tristan tries to find college towns if he can. Why? There’s usually some event with free food. All he has to do is act like a new commuter or transfer looking to get involved in campus activities.

Most of Tristan’s trists are well calculated. He uses hookups mainly for his ego, a fleeting sense of “love” and being wanted, and food. He knows his goals going in and doesn’t see it as much as manipulation as survival. Still, he does derive some amusement from watching the upper class or others desperate for affection play into his games. Besides, the older he gets, the more he thinks his foster parents saw his foster home shuffle as a game. No one was committed to him. Why should he be committal to anyone?

Tristan relishes in his freedom. No more foster parents telling him what to do as if they had any hold on him. No more system moving him around. He can go anywhere and do anything. His constant moving means limited consequences. The more he drifts and sees the world freely, despite his limited means, the more settling down becomes something to dread.

As someone with a sometimes limited supply of food, one of Tristan’s biggest pet peeves is food waste. While he doesn’t outright beg, he uses food banks to his advantage and is not above dumpster diving near restaurants or watching people throw out food and then taking it for himself after cutting off parts that look bitten off of.

Despite his inner turmoil and (self)destructive tendencies, Tristan doesn’t act all that bitter outwardly. Sure, one could get “bad boy” vibes off of him, but he still acts pleasant and care-free. In that way, he is still playing a role. Only, this time around, he acts less like an ideal person and more authentically (whatever that means for him for the time being). This is for survival now, not adoption.

Tristan’s greatest fear and greatest hope are intertwined: he hopes to find a family and people who love him unconditionally with no pretenses. However, he gets in his own way and uses relationships selfishly since he is terrified of being and becoming attached, loved, and vulnerable and fears that rejection, abandonment, and being used will follow soon after he’s lulled into a false sense of security.

[disillusionist9]

That post made me curious.... what made you start writing HP fanfic?

Oh boy buckle up.

I’ve been writing and making up stories since I was around five or six years old, but the first book series that really caught my attention and made me think in broader terms of worldbuilding was the Harry Potter series. This rich cast of characters unfolding before my eyes in equal parts mystery and unanswered questions really piqued my interest. I was seven, not too far from eight when I first read Sorcerer’s Stone, and at the time Prisoner of Azkaban was just released (July 1999, I’ll save you the trouble of looking up the release date).

When I got into highschool in the fall of 2005, I met several new upperclassmen friends through different social groups like band, the French club, and multi-level classes where seniors might be placed in a class with freshmen. I connected with a few girls that also loved HP to the max and to this day we share things back and forth on Facebook about the series, and they were the ones who introduced me to fanfiction.

My first profile still exists somewhere on harrypotterfanfiction.com. I had been reading for a while and decided I wanted to be able to keep track of my favorite stories and get updates when new content came out. 

Feel free to laugh at my first attempts of user IDs:

2006 (14/15 years old) - HPFF- kissedbyavampire (this was not my first username on the site, I made crazyshamel in 2005 but deleted the profile to make this one). There are stories here I’ve moved to my current profiles and some that I have abandoned.

2009 (17/18 years old) - FFN - crazyshamel (before I knew how to use the site, and honestly I have no clue how to get back to that profile)

2010 (18/19 years old - present) - FFN /AO3 - disillusionist9

I started writing it because I was reading some stories and loved the way the authors creatively twisted the canon. At the time I knew very few of those fancy fandom words and acronyms and had no idea what a trope was. Do you remember the first time you read a marriage law trope, or a Pureblood!Hermione story? Or my personal favorite at the time: HeadDorms!Dramione? Those were good days.

I wanted to get in on this, I truly was selfishly motivated and wanted to collect the sort of recognition some authors received for their work. Naive, I know. I had written so many things and never really shared them and after the first few reviews I was hooked.

I’ve grown up a lot as an author since that time. Now I crave the challenge of taking characters we know and exploring the traits we’re only able to see here and there. I like poking holes in the plot and filling them with my own answers.

Most of all? I love how fanfiction has reshaped and refined how I write original work.

Over the years I have met so many friends through fandom and interaction with them through their writing or their reactions to mine. There’s a wonderful community around it. It’s not just “oh boy that fic you wrote was great!” there’s more to it than that. I got addicted to the feedback at first, but I stayed for the friends I’ve made and intend to keep for years to come. Some of you are stuck with me for basically forever.