#also it was so fun slipping those two little my immortal references in this answer XD

[n7punk]

What is my immortal?

Ohhhh boy. Ok. Sit down.

My Immortal (wikipedia page) is the most famous fanfiction of all time. Couple disclaimers: it's almost not well-written enough to qualify for trigger warnings, but it does touch on a lot of triggers that I won't list off here. It is also, theoretically, tangentially, supposedly, "harry potter" fanfiction. However, harry is now known as Vampire, hermione is now B'loody Mary Smith, ron is Diablo, etc. A lot of the characters are now vampires and everyone is "goth" except the characters the author doesn't like, who are preps and posers. Also in one of the author's notes I think the writer ("Tara") literally says she hasn't read the books and it's based off "the movie". So like, it's connections to harry potter are tenuous at best and I'm not recommending you read anything beyond the first paragraph anyway, just putting that out there.

It's first person, follows a self-insert OC, and is entirely a fabrication of the writer's indulgence. It's one of those things that has gone down in fandom history and most people have read the first chapter, but we hadn't read more (AN: I don't recommend you do) so we had a read in the group chat and I either lost braincells or gained code-cracking skills trying to parse through the misspellings (both accidental and purposeful). A lot of people think it's a troll fic (which like, yeah makes sense) but there's a case to be made for it being a young tween's idea of a cool and edgy story that she and her friend made up and don't understand why everyone is hating on. I also think the world is a more beautiful place if it's sincere. The writer has managed to remain anonymous and undoxxed, which I am VERY grateful for, for her sake, even if I do desperately want to know the "real" story behind it and how she feels about its meme-status. Many people have come forward claiming to be the author and having done it as satire, but every one of them was a lying poser and a prep.

Below the cut is the opening of the famous "first chapter" (which only has a few more sentences in it after this anyway) for your reading pleasure. You really don't need to read any more than that, this is the part that became a meme and it only goes downhill from here. Also, "AN" (or "A/N") is "Author's Note" and yeah people really did used to just stick them in the middle of a fic, at least bad ones.

Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I’m also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I’m in the seventh year (I’m seventeen). I’m a goth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

[klaroline-fantasies]

Shewolf

For KCFanficWeek Day 2

Someone has been killing supernatural people in the Quarter; witches, vampires and werewolves alike.

The witches think it’s the vampires or the werewolves that have been doing it.

The vampires think it’s the werewolves and the werewolves think it’s either the vampires or the witches.

Everyone was blaming each other but Klaus knew considering everyone thinks it’s the other person that did it…it meant that none of them were the culprit. He knew whoever was killing the supernatural beings in the French Quarter was an outsider, possibly a hunter.

It had to be a very skilled and powerful hunter to rack up a body count such as the amount he racked.

But he also doubted it to be a hunter because he never heard of a hunter going after witches. He knew humans had a predilection for hunting witches but not real hunters.

Hunters hunted vampires and werewolves, not witches.

But whoever was doing the hunting had to be skilled enough to recognize who were vampires, who were werewolves despite the absence of a full moon and especially who were witches as they weren’t easy to detect.

His thoughts brought him to the chilling thought that they might be dealing with one of the Five. He had thought that when Silas died, so did the Five and their quest to keep the 2000 year old immortal from being resurrected, but it was the only logical explanation for that could have been doing all the killings in the Quarter.

But the fact that he was unable to catch the culprit was what ticked him off. The Five were stronger than your average corn-fed hunters. They were magically created to stand toe-to-toe with vampires, while those who decided to be the world’s savior by being hunters were just regular humans with basic skills for hunting. Neither of them was capable of eluding him.

He then thought it could’ve been someone from their past. Someone that he have forgotten and has come back for revenge or something, but none of the people from his past who could have still been alive could’ve eluded him and if they seek vengeance, they would also desire for Klaus to know who they were so that he would know why they were doing it.

The person killing the supernatural beings didn’t have specific method either. They chopped off their heads, ripped out their heads, but for the witches it was as simple as snapping their neck or stabbing them with regular objects.  The person doing it didn’t designate any specific killing method for specific species either. It was entirely random, like whoever they chanced upon they would kill.

The people he killed weren’t connected in any way, shape or form. It was all very random.

He sought to have a chat with Mystic Fall’s friendly neighborhood vampire, Stefan.

He told Klaus he hadn’t seen a hunter from the five since Elena’s brother, the Gilbert boy. Before he hung up, Stefan had also told him that Caroline was still the same before they ended their conversation.

He had heard that Caroline’s mother had passed.

He knew she would take that very hard.

He was also not shocked to find out she had switched her emotions off. He expected it in fact.

The Sherriff was her only blood relative she had left, the only remnants of her human life remaining. Now that she had lost her mother, and she felt alone. He knew had anything happened to her mother that would’ve been the outcome.

He decided he wouldn’t intervene because Caroline would eventually return to her emotions on her own time.

The temptation to see her without her emotions controlling her actions was there, but he had enough going on in New Orleans to bring her into the mess. Maybe when he had established more control then he would’ve invited her someday.

Some days had passed and more bodies had shown up.

He was beginning to get peeved by this unknown assailant who had been assassinating the members of his kingdom. He would stalk the town at night in hopes to catch the person in the act and use them as solidification to his crown by executing the person with the supernatural residents to see. But he never could get there on time. His kills were now more quick and messy, like they knew he was tailing them and they just killed the person and ran.

He was in a late night meeting with the vampires when suddenly two vampires came in dragging another body in. It was random nightwalker, but what was interesting about this specific kill was that the killer carved a message on the vampire’s chest just below the gaping hole where his heart once was.

“Missed me?” - C

He had no idea who it was, he knew many enemies whose first name began with the letter C. The words were carved with a fork or a skewer because it was written in such a way that would show it was a sharp object with two equal pointed ends.

Marcel wanted to round up all the members of the werewolves whose names, nicknames or last names began with a C, as well as the witches and even the vampires. Klaus wasn’t interested because he knew for sure that whoever it was, wasn’t a French Quarter native. This was a stranger. Had it been someone from New Orleans, they would’ve selected their prey, but these were too random to be someone from New Orleans.

He was on his way towards his room in the compound when he got a call from Stefan.

“She’s gone”

He froze in his movements as he knew exactly who Stefan meant when he said ‘she’ “What do you mean she’s gone?”

“She kinda just left like two months ago and we’ve been souring the earth for her and we can’t find her anywhere and I’m desperate. I didn’t want you to worry so I lied.”

Klaus growled into the phone “Never ask boys to do a man’s job.”

“Look, if I wanted to get insulted I could’ve gone to Damon. I’m telling you now because she’s emotionless and somewhere in the world racking up a body count. At this point, the only person who might be able to find her is you. Is there anywhere you can think of that she might go?”

Klaus’s angel boiled and he marched to the library room to prepare for a trip. The unknown person racking up bodies in New Orleans would have to wait until he got back. He would have to make some calls to his contacts around the world and send a picture so they have an idea on who they should be keeping an eye out.

He opened the door to his room but stopped at the doorstep at the sight in front of him.

The room was dimly lit and there was an eerie quietness to it. But what stood out to him was the chair in the centre of the room and the back was turned to him…with someone sitting in it.

That’s also wasn’t what caught his immediate attention, what caught his immediate attention was that the figure sitting in his chair that he couldn’t see was dangling her arm from the arm rest and her hands were bloodied and she held a fork in her grasp. He could see the fresh blood dripping from the fork as if she had just made her kill.

He knew it was a ‘her’ from the dainty fingers that held the weapon.

A sudden realization dawned on him…

Caroline had slipped the Salvatore’s two months ago…

The killings began a little over two months ago…

No…

Caroline couldn’t possibly evade capture for so long…

But she’s emotionless, she’s not held back by her inhibitions and her conscience. She’s the monster she’s been holding back since she turned.

She’s a stranger in New Orleans; she has no ties to anyone except him…

He never expected the culprit to be Caroline, nowhere in his mind had he allowed the idea to fester in his mind. He felt she was incapable of such a thing...

…but she abandoned her emotions, which rendered her capable of killing so much people.

He saw the back of her blonde hair and he knew that not even his sister would be so dramatic. He was completely and absolutely sure who she was now…

It was Caroline.

And the growing smirk on his face and the swell in his chest told them that he couldn’t be more proud.

She not only kept under the radar to the point where he didn’t even know she was in New Orleans, but she made sure the killings were all random so as to not point back to her should she have allowed a pattern to show, she treated each kill as the last with no prejudice, she refrained from giving him hints as to who it could be and when she was ready to show herself, she did it with style.

She could give Jack the Ripper a run for his money as she revealed herself on purpose whereas he kept his identity hidden.

The chair swiveled to face him and there she was, sitting in a very lady like manner with a smirk on her face. She wore a black boots, black jeans, a blank top and a jacket to match. She wore her hair in a manner he had never seen before, but even with her sinister appearance, he could see a flicker of her life glistening in her eyes.

“Well…” she trailed of softly “Did you?”

He knew she was referring to the message she left him on her last victim’s chest.

“Something tells me you already know the answer to that question.”

She blushed and looked down.

“So…” he took a step inside and hung up the phone, he would call Stefan back later “Should I expect more bodies to pop up or was that the last?”

“That’s the last…for now.  I achieved my purpose.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. She got up from the chair and slowly approached him.

“You guys were running around like headless chickens, trying to find out who’s been killing people. You blame your own, you blame the werewolves, you blame the witches, you blame the vampires, you doubt each other, you doubt yourselves, and no one figured out that the murderer wasn’t even from around here…but I think you did.” She stopped in front of him, she was so close to him she could feel his body heat against her skin and all she had to do was lean forward slightly to touch his lips with her own “It was so much fun to watch.”

He liked her like that, confident, assertive, calculating…but he could very much tell that she was missing her emotions, that she was different, because while he could see a spark of her light, it was just a spark…he found her slightly lacking without her emotions in a sense despite the fact that he did enjoy that side of her.

“Was it better on your end than mine?” he asked in a whisper, his eyes glancing to her lips briefly before back to her eyes.

“So much better…”

With those words she smashed her lips to his. Her kiss was hungry and wild; he returned it, pulling her closer by wrapping his arm around the small of her back. Her hand that wasn’t as coated with blood wrapped around his neck to keep him close. He heard the fork slowly drop to the floor and he allowed himself a little more time with her lips before he used his other hand to cradle her face.

He slowly pulled away and hummed in delight.

“I would be delighted to return to this after…”

“After what…?” she mumbled while her eyes were still closed.

With a sharp twist he snapped her neck. She fell to the ground unceremoniously and he looked down at her. It was time she returned to her emotions before she started killing more people and make the recovery that much harder.

He pulled back out his phone and called Stefan.

“Find yourself on the next plane to New Orleans, we have a lot of clean up to do.”

[torontohypnotherapist]

FEB. 5 — GEORGE GURDJIEFF QUOTES

SEEING ONESELF PICTORIALLY IN ALL ONE'S DAILY ACTIVITY

The weekly lectures of Jane Heap [on the Gurdjieff Teachings], given freely to all who came with real interest, were the intellectual food on which I was growing. In my Left Bank life, I dined most often alone in a little bistro behind my hotel, the Petit St. Benoit. Their menu, a five-franc 'tout compris', featured whatever was cheapest in Les Halles that day. As I ate, I reflected on the immense concepts of this "work on one's self" we were trying to do, while I stared at the plain wood buffet that displayed the evening's choice of desserts, usually 'creme caramel' or one small fruit. Jane repeatedly referred to the cinema of one's life, that it was on record that people drowning had a complete memory of everything that had happened in life. Could we use this power consciously? she asked. "Everything that has happened to us, every experience, is within us. The impress is in some one of the three centers, never to be eradicated, but generally forgotten. 'Everything is there'."

She told us how to get at it – by beginning with the day's events, picturing oneself as the central figure, but impersonally, so as to leave the emotional center free with its pictures. This method of seeing oneself pictorially in all one's daily activity was a way of keeping one's life from slipping into oblivion. "It has been called 'a specific against mediocrity' " she said and my mind leapt for her phrase while my pencil underlined it in my notes.

After doing the day's cinema, she suggested we try the cinema of our lives, unrolling all the reels. If we could do these things, if we could teach ourselves to see impersonally, uncritically, we should gain a mastery over the three mechanical centers. There was "an inviolate completeness" which could become the property of the human being. We were only approaching the outskirts of it...

But I had a wonderful time on the outskirts. I learned how to add seltzer at widely spaced intervals to one vermouth-cassis and make it last for hours on the 'terrasse' of the Deux Magots cafe directly opposite the Church of St.-Germain-des-Pres. Against that beautiful backdrop I would unroll the reels of my life, especially the early ones of a crop-headed tomboy tongue-tied with adoration for her sardonic father who could puncture a dream with a word. Now and again when he was on scene, my inner projector stopped turning and I would think about him deeply in terms of my newly learned ways of evaluating. Was that father predominantly a "physical center" man?

~ Kathryn Hulme “Undiscovered Country”

...

“MUST WANT TO GO 'SOLEIL ABSOLU”

At dinner, suddenly, out of the blue, as happens when Mr. G[urdjieff] intends to say something carefully premeditated, he began to speak to me about immortality. "There are two kinds unmortal. You now already have kesdjan body, this is unmortal, but not real unmortal. Real unmortal only comes with higher body. You have body for soul, but must have body for 'I'."

He then spoke of the distinction between Paradise and 'Soleil Absolu' [Sun Absolute]. You can go to Paradise with the Kesdjan body. But Paradise is only good for two or three days. "Imagine what would be if next year, year after, hundred years. Imagine how you would be irked (not the word, but equivalent), by such thing. Must want go 'Soleil Absolu'."

I understood perfectly everything that he meant by this. It corresponds exactly with all that I had been thinking about during the day. I remembered the saying, "When a man has crystallized, he can have whatever he wants ..." I know that I can have whatever I want, but I will not take it.

Most unmistakably my aim has changed, even before he spoke. Until now, I have desired and striven for mastery over my physical organism, including my thoughts and feelings. I have wanted to reach the assurance that I was free from my planetary body. All day today I have lived with that assurance. And at the same time I have become more and more obsessed with the need to make myself a vehicle for the Will of God. Or able to receive and be part of His Essence.

~ JG Bennett “Idiots in Paris”

...

(Fritz Peters recalling the first time he met George Gurdjieff as an 11-year-old boy)...

[H]e went on to tell me that in addition to learning "everything" I would also have the opportunity to study lesser subjects, such as languages, mathematics, various sciences, and so forth. He also said that I would find that his was not the usual school: "Can learn many things here that other schools not teach." He then patted my shoulder benevolently.

I use the word "benevolently" because the gesture was of great importance to me at the time. I longed for approval from some higher authority. To receive such "approval" from this man who was considered by other adults to be a "prophet", "seer", and/or a "Messiah"—and approval in such a simple, friendly gesture—was unexpected and heartwarming. I beamed.

His manner changed abruptly. He struck the table with one fist, looked at me with great intensity, and said: "Can you promise to do something for me?"

His voice and the look he had given me were frightening and also exciting. I felt both cornered and challenged. I answered him with one word, a firm "Yes".

He gestured towards the expanse of lawns before us: "You see this grass?"

"Yes."

"I give you work. You must cut this grass, with machine, every week."

I looked at the lawns, the grass spreading before us into what appeared to me infinity. It was, without any doubt, a prospect of more work in one week than I had ever contemplated in my life. Again, I said "Yes".

He struck the table with his fist for a second time. "You must promise on your God." His voice was deadly serious. "You must promise that you will do this thing no matter what happens."

I looked at him, questioning, respectful, and with considerable awe. No lawn—not even these (there were four of them) — had ever seemed important to me before. "I promise," I said earnestly.

"Not just promise," he reiterated. "Must promise you will do no matter what happens, no matter who try stop you. Many things can happen in life."

For a moment his words conjured up visions of terrifying arguments over the mowing of these lawns. I foresaw great emotional dramas taking place in the future on account of these lawns and of myself. Once again, I promised. I was as serious as he was then. I would have died, if necessary, in the act of mowing the lawns.

My feeling of dedication was obvious, and he seemed satisfied. He told me to begin work on Monday, and then dismissed me. I don't think I realized at the time—that is, the sensation was new to me—but I left him with the feeling that I had fallen in love; whether with the man, the lawns, or me, did not matter. My chest was expanded far beyond its normal capacity. I, a child, an unimportant cog in the world which belonged to adults, had been asked to perform something that was apparently vital.

~ Fritz Peters "Boyhood With Gurdjieff

...

A LESSON IN ACROBATICS

Seeing Mr. Gurdjieff always thoughtful, serious, and contained, I could not imagine him capable of acrobatic feats Indeed, he never ceased to astonish me and give me food for thought.

One day he shared a joyful moment of comradeship with us young men. The Study House was almost finished. We were in the process of laying the carpets and sewing them together, which most of the time forced us either to squat or kneel. The work was going well, and the relaxed presence of Mr. Gurdjieff created a very pleasant atmosphere. The softness of the carpets made us feel like rolling on the ground and, as Mr. Gurdjieff often encouraged us to relax, we had great fun doing acrobatics. Each of us took advantage of the occasion to display his skill. Mr. Gurdjieff followed our antics, encouraging those who were not doing so well; but if someone wanted to show off, he was at once given an exercise he could not do, which quickly put him in his place.

For example, seeing someone walking on his hands with his legs in the air, Mr. Gurdjieff would say, “Going forward is easy. Try staying still.”

When someone managed to do this, he would immediately throw out a new challenge: “Anyone can do this on two hands! But one cannot claim to be a real champion unless he can support himself on only one!”

If someone succeeded at this, he would then say that to be the very best, one must be able to support oneself equally on either hand. In short, he always found a difficulty that would teach a pretentious person a lesson or make him feel out of his depth.

Something very difficult for us amateur acrobats was to extend one leg parallel to the ground and to slowly bend the other until sitting on one’s heel; then, after a moment in this squatting position, to come up again slowly, still keeping the extended leg parallel to the ground. Even if one of us succeeded in doing this on one leg, he couldn’t do it on the other.

Watching us, Mr Gurdjieff laughed kind-heartedly and said that one part of our bodies was made of wood and another filled with lead. When we were exhausted by our fruitless efforts, he interjected: “What! You can’t even do a childish exercise like that! When I was a child, we also played such games; but it would take too long to explain them. I will simply show you something we did as children.”

Turning to one of us, he asked, “Which leg is more difficult to hold in the air?”

“The left.”

Mr. Gurdjieff extended his left leg parallel to the ground and lowered himself in stages. Once seated on his right heel, he slowly brought the sole of his left foot to his right knee, then held this position. Clearing his throat, he took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one and began to smoke. This was done so naturally and with such ease that none of us took the demonstration to be at all serious or difficult.

In the same position, still smoking his cigarette, he continued the conversation. When he had finished the cigarette, his body gave a jolt upwards and became immobilized, another jolt and again it stopped. It was as if electrical discharges shook an inert body, raising it by degrees until it was completely upright, the left leg always resting on the right knee. Then, with the look of someone who had just remembered something, he bent forward and simply let his left foot fall to the ground as he began to walk away.

“Try to sew the rest of the carpets together for tonight,” he said to us as he left.

We had not found this demonstration by Mr. Gurdjieff at all astonishing as there was no apparent effort, either in this posture, in his movements, or on his face.

Naturally, we were determined to repeat the exercise and after he left, we tried to copy the movements he had made. It was only then that we were forced to accept the real difficulty of what he had shown us. A long time afterwards I understood that this exercise, though not at all spectacular in fact belonged to a higher level of balance and acrobatics.

We told some older people what we had seen. After having tried this exercise several times without success, tbs' asked Mr. Gurdjieff how to practise it. He did not immediately understand what they were referring to, but once he grasped the meaning he declared innocently, “To tell the truth, I no longer remember what I did as a child.”

~ Tchekovitch "Gurdjieff — A Master in Life"

www.torontohypnotherapist.com