#and im a slag for threads ..

[tearfest]

⋆˚࿔ click the heart if i can dive into ur opens .. 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

[fmdkiana]

house of silver, august 26th, on camera

for a middle rank, this house was quite fancy. kiana hovered her hand along the line of a dresser against the wall. after necessary polite greetings to the andromeda girls they would supposedly be sharing the house with, ki was lucky enough to be able to slip away. five girls in one dorm had already been enough for her; doubling that...

“i wonder what the other homes are like, if this is what we get for a middle ranking,” she turned her voice, and partially her body towards belle, “perhaps the groups higher than us are living in gold encrusted quarters.” she turned back to grab her package-sized suitcase, “i can’t imagine that would be particularly comfortable, though,” and rolled it over to a wall of the room. thankfully, good or bad, they wouldn’t be living there long. “how do you think we’ll do on performance day?”

@fmdbelle

[roach-works]

Hey, hope you're doing well! This is a niche of a long-shot of a question, no pressure at all, but I occasionally get engineering texts in my translation job and JA-EN resources are weirdly scarce in that area, so I am now casting a rope at you — as a weldy guy, do you by any chance know what the likely equivalent English term for welding flaws on the surface of the bead that Japanese describes as "peaks" (like the coiled tips in whipped cream) could be? (Also, 💛 your Motorcity art, so good)

do you mean those little volcanoes you get when there's too much porosity? i hate those. they don't happen commonly enough to have a name that i can even google, it's mostly a feature of welding too hastily on filthy/rusty plate metal or having a big problem with your shield gas or welding angle. oxidized material on the base plate superheats when the weld bead is put on top, and bursts up a big airbubble through the liquid metal, making a little volcano/fountain of slag. incredibly frustrating to see happen (but also kind of cool looking). is that what your text is referring to?

this doesn't have a name i can remember or find anywhere online, grr, but if you call it a 'peak' just like in japanese it'll certainly get the point (haha) across. i've found two forum posts where everyone understands the term 'volcano' too (https://weldingweb.com/vbb/threads/59885-Why-volcano-with-mig-welding) and (https://forum.millerwelds.com/forum/welding-discussions/13062-mushroom-volcano-head-on-mig-weld-bead) but it doesn't come up on 'common' welding term lists i can find.

i suggest asking around on https://www.reddit.com/r/Welding/ , i bet there's a lot of expert and experienced welders who would love to consult on a translation project! im just a guy who uses the first words that come to hand to complain about my problems, so im not the best to talk to for Correct Terminology.

[modestmuses-a]

❤️, 💛, 💚, 💜, ❣️, 💘 (akali)

genuinely surprised you didn’t send me every heart.

multi-muse questions | accepting

❤️ ; Which muse do you feel you enjoy writing the most?

ekko because his characterization comes very easily to me. i feel like i was able to get a handle on him pretty fast, and it’s easy to think about how he would react to certain things in threads, whereas some of my other muses require a little more deliberation, a little more thinking about whether something is too ooc for them.

cindy, too, because i’ve already been writing her privately for years. it took me a little bit to kind of... understand how she would work in an rp setting, so getting threads going with her was much slower than it was with ekko. but i really enjoy writing her now, both privately and on this blog.

and then my lackadaisy muses. i do love me some crime cats. mordecai is much different from my other muses, in that he doesn’t display strong emotions and he tends to be much more calculated instead of impulsive, driven by logic, thinking more about the potential outcomes than anyone else. and ivy is just a ham who is always really fun to bring out for her optimistic attitude and her tendency to talk way too much and just... force people into going along with whatever she has planned for the day.

💛 ; Is there a muse you wish received more interactions?

my lackadaisy muses, mostly because they are so fun to write! and yet lackadaisy is more of an obscure fandom, so i don’t get as many people interested in interacting with my dear criminal furries.

💚 ; Do you have a favourite muse, or do you love all of your muses equally?

haha, i already answered this, but that’s gonna be a big fat no on loving them all equally. ekko takes up the biggest slice in the pie chart that is my heart and we all know it.

💜 ; Is there a muse you want to add to your blog? If so, tell us about them.

here’s one you’ll be familiar with: rumble from league of legends! what, you thought i was done adding league muses to my blog? You Fool.

for anyone who doesn’t know, rumble is a yordle (aka a tiny magical rodent furry), and an angry one at that. he believes yordles are superior to humans and is prone to picking fights... and then... getting his ass kicked lmao

tired of getting his ass kicked, he disappeared for two months, and when he returned, he was piloting a giant “fuck off” mech. he’s pretty useless at fighting without the steaming pile of slag he calls his fuck-off mech and may be the least magical yordle in existence, a runt even by magical rodent standards.

he’s shitty and arrogant and loud and obnoxious, and i want as many muses to put him in his place as possible. i will also pay a tristana to come and reject his romantic advances because he’s kind of creepy. i am not a rumble/tristana fan, haha! i think he oughta move on from her!

❣️ ; Do you get annoyed when people don’t specify what muse they want to interact with?

not really! i know a lot of other multimuse blogs do, but i’m just like... ok, random muse it is! if somebody doesn’t specify, they are essentially leaving themselves at the mercy of my whims. ;) you don’t specify muse, you make your bed and you lie in it.

of course, i don’t run into this problem. most people specify muse, and when people forget, they usually IM me or send me another ask, specifying before i can even get around to answering.

i do put “//specify muse!” on all my ask memes, but that’s really just more of a suggestion. if you don’t know what muse you want, you can just send me some random dialogue and i’ll pick the muse i like best for it.

💘 ; What genre of writing do you prefer for Akali?

kfjdskdjk boring slice-of-lifey type bullshit, haha! there’s a reason i don’t play classic akali on this blog, and it’s because i like her best as... this street rat who found herself as a well-known kpop idol basically overnight and now has to deal with the fact that she can’t do whatever she wants anymore without causing trouble for K/DA.

i like... friendship stuff with her... going on late night drives with evelynn, sitting on the kitchen counter while kai’sa cooks, going shopping with ahri, so on and so forth.

classic akali, with all her Bitchy Assassin persona, doesn’t lend herself nearly as well to... the kinds of things i wanted to write. i like me a warm and empathetic akali, and while classic akali definitely still cares about people (that was her whole reason for leaving the kinkou after all), she doesn’t... make friends as easily as K/DA akali does.

even in my verses where akali is still an assassin (project and fallout), which i have yet to write, she’s still not too bitchy bc i! just! don’t! like it!

she does give ekko a little bit of shit in the fallout verse, but it’s more in a “stop following me around and go home, i go up against some pretty dangerous people and i don’t want you getting hurt” kind of way. and then when he adamantly refuses to leave, she teaches him to shoot a gun, because yes, she uses guns in that verse sometimes. kama and kunai ain’t gonna do shit against a deathclaw, okay?

[n7soldiered]

          IMPORTANT  HEADCANONS  TO  CONSIDER  !

CAN THEY USE CHOPSTICKS:    Yes, he can use chopsticks.   I like to believe John is good at everything he does.  A jack of all trades but a master of none, however.   And as someone who is deeply connected to their Chinese roots, and raised in a traditional Chinese household, it pains me to say that he just stabs everything with them.  If there are noodles involved, expect him to swallow from the bowl.  ( and no, it's not rude table manners.  that’s a common misconception.  in asia, if you slurp or eat from the bowl, it's a compliment to the cook.  dunno about aliens tho ).

WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY CAN’T SLEEP:   I’ve been mulling over this for the past few days ( and im gonna go off tangent ), but I’m pretty sure I’ve repeated this enough times.  If he can’t sleep and there’s shit to be done, he’s probably working.  If there’s no work to be done, which is an odd concept in itself, John probably won’t know what to do with himself for a bit.  Because he’s a total square.  And because John suffers from severe PTSD.

He suffers night terrors, oftentimes, but mostly sleep paralysis and hallucinogenic nightmares.  His trauma stems from the events of his childhood to his apparent death, as well as post-reaper war etc.  His dreams mostly consist of suffocating while in the vacuum of space, stuck in his N7 armor with no air to breathe.  For that reason, he doesn’t prefer total darkness in his cabin, and he can't sleep without having on some light.  I’m also positive that his lover has woken him up in the middle of the night due to these issues.  Still trapped in his nightmares, John just stops breathing or he wakes up, shouting.

On the really bad nights, he'll quietly move his shit over to the crew bunks and sleep there.  But if he lies awake in bed for too long, he’ll get frustrated, I’m sure.  I can see him invading the mess for food, maybe even try cooking on his own.  In short, he does stuff he doesn’t normally get the chance to do.  Oh, and if there’s someone else awake, he’d chat them up because he can’t help himself.  John doesn’t like to be alone.

WHAT WOULD THEY IMPULSE BUY AT THE GROCERY STORE:   This is timeline dependent.  As a kid/young teen, he didn’t have the money to impulsively buy random shit in a store.  As for later on, when he is an adult and has more than enough credit chits to spare, John buys anything he thinks someone will like.  I.E:  new boots for Jane; new leather jacket for Ryan; a massive cake for Jyn;  new rifle for Garrus;  new amp for Kaidan;  new makeup kit for Jack;  the list goes on.  Forever.   It’s probably awful how much he spends but, then again, counting how much currency one can gain in-game, the man is sort of rich as fuck, so it works out?

WHAT ORDER DO THEY WASH THINGS IN THE SHOWER:    I HAVE DWELLED ON THIS QUESTION FOR TEN YEARS.    And it isn’t because I'm perverted, I swear.  It’s because I first have to wonder, what the fuck is on Shepard’s mind when he gets into the shower?  What is he thinking after a long, hard battle?  What’s going through his head, after he’s killed a score of over fifty men and women, human or otherwise?  Is there regret?  Has he any doubt in the choices made?  Was he injured, is he in pain?

Are his hands still shaking from adrenaline having seared through his veins, burned his nerve endings to slag?  Is he disjointed from reality, barely able to stand on his own, in his private quarters?  Has he bothered removing his armor, before getting under the spray?  Is he still covered in blood and guts, weighed down by dirt and dross?  Is he thinking about how he almost lost a squad mate, this time?  Does his mind leap to contingencies, questions;  what if he hadn’t been fast enough, would he have been able to handle the loss while all alone, in this moment of fleeting repose?

Does he wonder what if, one day, commander Shepard just isn’t enough?

I don’t think John really washes anything in order.  He gets under the shower, and he just — he just stands there.  For a while.  At least, until EDI warns him that he’s dipping into the emergency water reserves and that he can continue his shower once the Normandy goes through one recycle sequence.  In other words, he can continue his shower after waiting 30 minutes.  If John’s in a bad place—I’m talkin’ a really bad place, she shocks him with freezing cold water to get his attention.

John usually takes it without protest, save for tensing up or yelping out a half-bitten curse.  But he always thanks EDI.  Always.  And EDI always says you are welcome.

WHAT’S THEIR COFFEE ORDER:  Please, do not EVER give John watered down sugary seasonal frappe crap.  He will hate it.  John likes the taste of bold roasts.  Bit of sugar and cream.  He likes it sweet and bitter.

WHAT SORT OF APPS WOULD THEY HAVE ON THEIR SMARTPHONE:   I         I actually don’t know.  After thinking about this for a bit, I don’t think he’d have anything particularly interesting.  Weather app, news apps, forum/thread apps revolving around politics, world news, stock, and market.  I think John isn’t one to entertain himself with electronics when he could be doing pretty much anything else than staring at his omni-tool.  In a modern verse, it’s pretty much the same.  Perhaps, just slightly less boring?

His most interesting app would definitely be p!nterest or something—and I’m not saying that because I’ve been using it a lot lately lmao.  I think the visual stimulation is the only thing that could capture his attention.  Since I don’t exactly see him as a vain type, I doubt he’d like taking pictures of himself.  No Instagram account for himself or anything like that, but, he’d definitely have an Instagram account filled with pictures of his life, his lover, his family etc.  The contrast of pictures of his dog vs him is absolutely staggering.  Overall, he’s not huge on social media.  If you need to talk to him, find him yourself etc.

HOW DO THEY ACT AROUND CHILDREN:  Oh, lord.   John doesn’t …  okay, as of now, he doesn’t know how he feels about them.  Doesn’t know what to do around children.  I mean, he’ll do his best to console a crying child, and he’s held a toddler for pictures before, but that doesn’t really make him feel any better.  If you want me to get specific, he’s borderline terrified of babies.  How do you get them to stop crying?  How do you hold them without breaking them?  Just his one hand is larger than half the baby.  John won’t know what to do with himself.

That isn’t to say he doesn’t want kids.   Be it adoption, surrogate, lab-born, it doesn’t matter how; he wants a family one day, he really does.  It’s just ... when he thinks about babies—children—he gets terrified he somehow might hurt them.  And if he ever came to accidentally hurt his own child, I don’t think he would ever forgive himself.  Honestly?  If kids are around him, he’ll go stand in a corner and hope to god nothing blows up since things do have a tendency to suddenly explode around him.

WHAT WOULD THEY WATCH ON TV WHEN THEY’RE BORED & NOTHING THEY REALLY LIKE IS ON:    Once again, John just isn’t the type of person to waste time.  There’s too much for him to do.  He’d rather do anything else than suffer from ‘boredom’.

tagged by:  @kyberborne  thank you!! tagging:  @littleredrenegade @risenspectre

[the-countessa]

Embrace the suck...it's gonna be a long ass night

It is not that I no longer care, because I do, and always will; not matter how angry, how hurt, how used up I feel, and without rhyme or reason, I always shall care. I'm always going to keep an eye on his facebook to make sure he is still alive and ok. I'm never going to stop wishing things were different or hoping like hell they're gonna change, or get something back from before. And I mean wish, and hope and hell, even prey (my version anyway) But I simply cannot have the person that he has become in my life. Too much hurt; too many times times over the last four and a half years of being treated (as he is fond of saying) like a cunt. Cheated on when we were dating, lied to repeatedly, and my feelings being railroaded. Then when I sat there, angry and upset, demanding to be treated with respect and consideration; well, with each time, it's become harder and harder for him to see. And treating my pain as insignificate and only from some shallow places of jealousy. And yes, even I can see the obserdity of it, to end it all over, as he sees it, pizza. But after so long of looking after him, since the very beginning back in Gravesend when we first hung out and he was unemployed, buying him food, trying to keep him going as best as I could. All I have ever done really. After doing that and being treated so badly and used up, when I needed him to simply return the damn favour when I had no food and no money, I get thrown out on my arse, for a date? And the ironic thing is, the bit he doesn't know, I actually like the idea of this one... But after so long giving and giving and giving; after him banging on about gratitue and friendship and giving back, he simply failed. Failed again. Failed me. And then to have the line "You're not my enemy, you'll just be another 'friend' that's decided to not talk to me anymore." as though I haven't tried time and time again, as though nothing I have ever done made any sort of matter; not Christmas (not good enough), not his birthday (too depressed), not paying for food, gym clothes, warhammer boards, taxis to and from a&e, not all the time I cooked dinner, did the laundry, made the bed, bought the linin and kitchen crap, not the running to the chemist when he was sick...not the sex, dating, friendship. None of it. And no, that doesn't mean I've forgotten what he did for me...but it doesn't balance the books. He let me move in with him, rent free, to get me away from my dad who was close to driving me to suicide; but that he had someone to pay for food whilst he wasn't working, pay the rent when he couldn't manage it (once? twice?). And arrangment of mutual conveniance that saved him just as much as it did me. Yeah, he paid out for some great nights out, but so did I...but it hurt more to pay for tickets to go up to London and watch him butterfly his arse around his friends, only to return for a drink. Hell, I paid for his birthday and for him to be at my own. The books just no longer balance, and there is only so much one can put up with until you wonder "why am I here? How can this be friendship when I feel like I am trying to constantly please you, only to have it go unnoticed, unmentioned?' I was always the first to fight his corner and the last out the ring, no matter what. But more and more he says and does things that leave me speechless and sick. A mutual friend lost the love of her life a couple of weeks before christmas; he'd have rather spent his money on a bottle of booze than support her. Even heard tell that she offered to pay for him to go to the memorial, just because she wanted him there...he couldn't muster up enough friendship to support someone who has truely lost something vital. December again, I spent a small fortune on a long month doing everything I could to make it good for him, almost the way you would for a child. And after forking out over £60 for his birthday, paying for him to come out for mine...couldn't even manage a 99p birthday card. What did he say to me the day before Christmad Eve, something about him rather spending his money making him happy. Not a thought to giving back. Halloween; I get sexually assulted, and what frightened me most was him pining me to the bed with his hands around my throat screaming at me. And promptly throwing me out. Ignored me for three days. Told me how his hands around my throat was my fault. The wife beater excuse, the line of domestic abusers, that it was asked for. And that's now ironically been capped off with him telling me to report the abusive bastard who lives next door. And that is who he is. A lying, cheating, violent, angry, bitter man, so self obsessed that if he were to read this, would be more concerned about him image than that he has hurt and terrified the person who has done more good things for him than most. So self-serving, he's rather date than help a friend who sucked up their pride and fear and asked for just a little help. So hypocritial, he bangs on about how pro-feminist he is, how much he understands mental health because he has problems too, that he oh so easily paints me as the Crazy ex-GIRLfriend, throws my depression in my face, hell, even the other day he was pulling at the thread of someones BPD. So obssesed with this idea he has of happiness, that he doesn't spair a thought for those he climbs over to get to it. So weighed down with his past, so stuck there, that any female worth a damn couldn't get through; more in love with what has gone that he barely appreciates what he has. Ok, so exactly true; he has been more than happy to praise everyone else who has helped him (joint incommers or people who have had a sudden windfall) just not me. The one who the second she can't afford to keep him is told "If someone offers to pick me up n feed me for free then sorry but I'm gonna take it." turning his date into little more than a meal ticket and showing me that I am no longer of any use. What was the point of me? That isn't even a drop in the ocean of it all; so much over the last four and a half years. And memories that should be good are now completely tainted. I managed 28 years on this earth without one real regret, until now. And that is I regret having ever met him. And that is heart crushing. That is what drives me into a bottle and into a packet of little blue pills. For my shame. So, how can I still care for someone, after all that? Maybe everyone, his people and mine, are right, Im just abused and frightened and simply stockholm Syndrome. Or maybe I am right, maybe underneath it all, the fear and anger and confusion, there is a good soul. Or maybe my mother is right and he is suffering from some serious mental health issue. I just don't know anymore. But still, how in the hell can I still find it in me to give a damn and wish we could go back? It's fucked up. I don't know if he'll read this. I hope he does. I really hope he does. I know he'll be fuming, see it as an attack or bitchfest. But honestly, I just want, and he needs to see that he cannot go on this way. That this, who he has become and what he is doing is not good or right, for the best, or anyone elses fault but his own. And fix it! No one else can. I am not just some 'friend', I was your best friend who would have done anything to keep you from drowning. I did not decide to not talk to you, I am just simply unable to talk without wanting to scream and shout and cry and hope like hell something finally gets through that thick skull of yours! And no, I am not the only one. Hell, my family hates him now; even my own mother, who opened her home to him after he cheated on me with Jasz because I asked her to, who stood by me during so many arguments and rows before Christmas to ensure that he wasn't alone wants to clobber him (though, as I keep telling her, she is disabled and probably would not get very far). And as for his friends? How many of them told me to run, call him a snake, have told me how they are done with his melodrama and bullshit...and not just the ones who show two faces, but the genuine good ones have basically decided that they are done. I'm sure that will send him into a rage, but I should be clear that no, I haven't been slagging him off to everyone and their mother just to get that response because I have been begging everyone to tell me I am wrong. And trying like hell to make sure these people stay close enough in his life to keep an eye on him. I do not want him to loose his people because (so long as he doesn't continue to alienate them) he will need them. It hurt to see him advertise a gig for a band that he knows I love, that he promised to take me to, because he cut me out. It hurts to read him alter history just enough that I loose my place it in. It all hurts and I get angry and yes I lash out. Because it is unfair and crule. But I'll get over that all in time...a very, very, very long ass time. What I shall not get over is his self-distruction. Ok, maybe we no longer fit in one anothers life; but to watch hin waste his life, ignore his health, and basically act more like a child than the almost 40 year old adult is driving me nuts. I want to shake him. No, I want to tie him to a chair whilst I beat him with a basebalk bat yelling "I love you but sort you fucking shit!" Own your mistakes. Admit to them. See yourself for what you really are, and fucking well fix them! Take a long hard look at your life, stop blaming others and walking around with a chip on your shoulder like the Universe owes you something and get the hell over it. And take a long hard look at everything you have done to me over the last four and a half years, be honest with yourself about your actions, your behaviour; from the editing of a truth to "save" my feelings, to the outright lies, cheating, using my body like I was a whore (a post for another time, but fucking someone without eye contact, without a simple sodding kiss, and with what we did, without basic aftercare, I have come away with some serious issues in regards to sex...on top of a sexual assult) and see through my eyes. See how it looks and feels to always be dropped by you best friend for the same reason time and time again, sex. No other reason, not for family or friends or emergancies or work or anything, just sex. Just open your eyes. All this writing, all these words are for me, and though I know he will be angry for it, I hope that there is an understanding (finally) that this silly little account is the one corner of the internet is mine. And surely a hell of a lot better than posting it to facebook. And Id never be able to say these things to him, because his anger would stop him from actually listening and just start shouting me down. I don't honestly know if he'll read this, but I hope he gets to the end. I hope he reads and dwells and thinks and learns and changes. I do not know how to get out of this blackhole, I only know that he is the only one with the power to do so. All I can do is make an attempt to follow a little of my own advice. I am lacking for a life, but I am working on it. Not to spite him, but regardless of him, I need it. And I need to follow my passion too. Something that makes me happy, that I hope may bring joy to others. You broke my heart, and my spirit, but I shall rebuild me. A better me. Me who will be just as giving and as loving as I always have. And I sincerly hope he can do the same because he is on a path to his own personal hell, and to stay in his sphere right now will only drag me down with him. I cannot allow that. And once he has fixed him, maybe he'll come find me, and maybe he can lay some groundwork to fix us, better than before. But no one can live on just hope forever. Anyway, if you stuck with this long ass post, thanks. And ten points to you. I realise it's filled with melodrama and meloncolly...and god awful spelling errors, but I dont have a spell check and it is below freezing and I am smoking up a storm as I type. And it's dark too since we've blown a fuse at the homestead. But I am an emotive person, a quite a talking, and a classic over thinker whose mind has literally been stuck on this issue for the last 2 weeks and 6 days. And people have told me to talk to him, but I know he will not listen to me, so I figured, try here? Maybe something might get through? And maybe, I can expell some of this negativity and pain so I can move on, in that healthy mature sort of way. Anyway, I guess that's it. XOXOX

[crown-eater]

A maze of pain and insane fantasies

Over the course of the past week, ‘Choly had been making a genuine effort to start moving into Cecil’s apartment beyond simply leaving a few belongings here and there as he came and went. Things hadn’t quietened down on the Bell front, but his landlady had served him yet another "final notice” that felt more ominously terminal than the others that had come before it. So between acclimating to his metagenesis and running errands for Bell, Chalcedony, and the Tellurides, he had found himself doing his best to at least scavenge the important things.

Like the leg lamp.

The leg lamp caused a huge fuss, and it ended up in the garbage at least twice. Cecil hated the thing, but it was one of ‘Choly’s most cherished possessions, one of the few things he felt his mother’s hoarding habits had yielded to benefit. He had no idea why it existed, or what cultural significance it might have had, but it was his and he loved it. Ultimately the lovers had to agree to disagree, and the leg lamp moved around the apartment as Cecil repeatedly disowned it. ‘Choly always returned it to the side-table beside the daybed he’d taken for his own.

'Choly had a sizable collection of physical copy novels, including his most prized possessions Roadside Picnic and Crash, the former of which being a nearly verbot relic and thrill token, a tangible piece of Quarter history. But, the stack of roughly a dozen novels paled as child’s play compared to the walls of Cecil’s apartment so densely lined with bookshelves that he also used them as sectional dividers. Cecil had been spelunking to rescue books since childhood, and he cultivated two very different collections from the life’s work: one at the physical copies wing of the library, a good third of it his own additions, and a second at home. His private collection was comprised of books which catered to his own personal interests, including many books too damaged to donate or too controversial to air in public.

Unprecedented for ‘Choly was the experience of a good Wi-Fi signal in a private setting. Cecil had left ‘Choly to the task of unpacking a couple of boxes while Cecil went to work for the day, and once ‘Choly felt like he had gotten sufficient progress, he treated himself to Web surfing unabated.

The notification sound of his chat app startled him, and at first he was disgruntled because an unfamiliar username was messaging him.

9augen: hey you havent been posting very much lately

9augen: everything all right?

9augen: this is rev by the way

«There you are, you stupid ghoul,» he thought to himself. «So you went silent for over a month and came back with a new username. Clever.»

ketherphorbia: *i* haven’t been posting much lately?

ketherphorbia: welcome back to the land of the living

9augen: not quite

9augen: i was just wondering. isnt like you. didnt even make a journal post

9augen: usually you vent if somethings wrong?

ketherphorbia: you’re honestly the only person who’s noticed the radio silence, ironically

9augen: why wouldnt i notice? youre my favorite for reasons you know

ketherphorbia: ...i guess if i can dish to somebody, it’d be you

ketherphorbia: i, well

ketherphorbia: i did it. i tried it.

9augen is typing...

9augen: whatd you get your hands on???

ketherphorbia: the junk that’s making all the stalkers sick. fluxeldrin. turns out my assumptions were wrong. it’s not what made the supermarket geek

9augen: ...

9augen: the slag does it do to a dreg then

ketherphorbia: a lot of what it did really slagging sucks. i’ve mentioned my joint disorder before. all those symptoms are magnified to a fault. i...

ketherphorbia: i kinda literally fall apart now

ketherphorbia: on the plus side, it did make me a meta. a really shitty meta, but ME. a META.

9augen: magic fall apart powers sound incredibly useful to me

9augen: haha pics or it didnt happen

ketherphorbia: yeah i thought you were as hard over this as me, you dreg

ketherphorbia is sending a file DSC39082_100-3493.JPG.

ketherphorbia: it stretches pretty far actually

9augen: fuck--

9augen: shit--

ketherphorbia: did i break you? you should see tricks my dick can do now

9augen: i--

ketherphorbia: i really need to take pics of that, but i’ve been kind of nervous to post ‘em anywhere

9augen: slagging cocktease the fuck man. im at a finnegans

ketherphorbia: sorry

9augen: no you arent. one of the reasons i love you

ketherphorbia: yeah no you’re right. you know me too well

9augen: ive told you before i think youre cute right

ketherphorbia: slag, the skin thing makes it hard to disagree with you

9augen: i never sent you a pic of me did i

ketherphorbia is typing...

ketherphorbia: i’m taken, y’know, but no. you haven’t.

9augen: i know. youre a chouay nasty little creature now like youve always wanted. maybe not the next clayface. but you still have got this teratophilic dregs heart pounding hard tonight

ketherphorbia: ...i try

9augen: theres a reason i havent sent you a pic before, but the reason i was quiet for the past month makes things a little more comfortable. i used to be pretty selfconscious about photographs

ketherphorbia is typing...

ketherphorbia: i have no idea what you could even possibly be going on about. you trying to tell me something happened last month? are you going to tell me what happened or not

9augen: The vampire stuff isn’t an act anymore.

ketherphorbia is typing...

ketherphorbia has stopped typing.

ketherphorbia: WHAT

9augen is sending a file DSC92734_101-2245.JPG.

ketherphorbia cancelled the file transfer.

9augen: the slag did you do that for

ketherphorbia: vampires don’t show up in pictures

9augen is sending a file DSC92734_101-2245.JPG.

9augen: very funny bugdick

ketherphorbia: ...a hybrid...?

9augen: im more lamprey than anything else. but theres a lot of nuance to the cocktail. fine tuning

ketherphorbia: ...gives a whole new meaning to ‘body modification.’ how the slag did you even get that done last month? isn’t that stuff banned?

9augen is typing...

9augen: slag i hear somebody griping at the waitress about the smell of me. like some dead thing crawled out of the bay. shes probably going to kick me out. i should get going anyway

ketherphorbia: rude. you a wifi hopper too then?

9augen is typing...

9augen: parting thought for you though. i want my mouth all over every inch of that metahuman skin of yours. just imagine all the perfect lancet marks making lace out of you.

ketherphorbia: you show up in pictures. i really doubt i could keep you away just by not inviting you in.

9augen: im pretty sure they just called the cops. not the evening i was anticipating

9augen: i gotta get a bite to eat. later dreg

9augen: and would you really do something to keep me away? ;)

ketherphorbia is typing...

9augen is offline.

ketherphorbia: did you just--

‘Choly nearly flung the reader once his friend logged off without further answers. Had Rev just implied what it had sounded like? After a minute of trying to calm down, he opened the vampire’s selfie again and stared. He’d snapped that picture in the Finnegan’s. Time-stamp aside, ‘Choly could recognize the newsprint-plastered walls in the background--that was a frequent Wi-Fi lurk for him. The fact the two shared a stomping ground but had never initiated meeting in person haunted ‘Choly a bit. But now, his friend was a lot less inconspicuous.

He decided to make lunch instead of try to linger on the chaos that just thrust itself upon him. Hours later, he was checking his mail on his reader, and had gotten correspondence from a 9augen email. The following thread of emails were exchanged over the course of just over two months.

▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼

To: ketherphorbia@geemail.com From: 9augen@tricity.co.dv Subject: Sorry to have cut out on you like that. —————————————

I suppose I do owe you an explanation, Kether. We’ve known each other long enough, and we trust enough enough. Yes, I did get the work done last month. Yes, that kind of work is verbot. Yes, I’m supposed to keep hush-hush about it until the coast is clear. But, I know I can trust you with the knowledge that the movement is still very much alive and kicking.

You like stories. How about some non-fiction for a change?

I didn’t know what to expect when I went to see him. Aside from what little understanding of splicing I had through news coverage, all I knew of it had been vampires in my coven who’d had the fortune--and I use that word in both senses--to have had work done while it was still legal, to become more like themselves and live as the creatures of the night they were in their souls.

There’s still a lot of under the table activity. Alleyways, clinics. People get work done however they can sneak it. One girl came into this one club a few months ago, even, said she’d traded a few sexual favors for the funds to get a splice that’d emulate albinism for her and would cut her teeth. She was having great difficulty keeping herself from feeding directly from the flesh afterward. They hadn’t used sterile equipment, and the last thing she wanted was to contaminate the coven or its donors. She became a pariah for her limitations after the coven learned of the blood disease. Requiring blood be drawn, rather than be capable of drawing it oneself, is weakness, and in one of us weakness is revolting. And she wasn’t strong enough to accumulate the funds to go about seeking a cure, to dig herself back out of her self-imposed grave.

I was so wary of botched jobs, of diseased implements, of cut dosages... Everything after the ban went into effect sounded too good to be true, that anyone might ever have the chance to get work done again by someone with both the credentials and accommodations to do it and do it well. A friend of a friend was in with one of the underground grafters, got us private referrals for a new project, at a cut rate due to it being a test procedure. None of us was given the same time. The location was a residential address, an apartment in the lower-mid of Union City. Nice, but still obviously it was an aging complex. A feathered girl greeted me and, after confirming I was alone, ushered me inside. Despite being a residential space, the whole place was set up like a laboratory. It was prodigious.

I went in with a lot of specific plans in mind. I told the grafter the things I wanted. Heavy on the bat serum. Wolf eyes. I had the money and the opportunity, and I was going to get exactly what I wanted out of it.

Turns out, I only thought I knew what I really wanted out of it.

Let me tell you. This Linnaeus is the most intimidating, persuasive, and completely dominating individual you will ever have the pleasure of meeting. He’s also probably the most brilliant. I couldn’t even begin to guess what species he’s got in him. In the month since, I’ve been told he specializes in splicing with extinct species. I would call bollocks on such a claim, but it sounds crazy enough to be one-hundred percent true.

After hearing the particulars of my desires, he thought a moment, paced. He pulled up a chair next to me and coolly asked me what vampire species I could name off the top of my head--besides the vampire bat. On the spot and overshadowed by his overwhelming aura, I could only stammer out something stupid, like mosquitoe or flea. I can’t remember exactly what answer I gave him, but I clearly remember his trite, patient laugh that came of it. At that point, he pulled out a graphics reader and tried to pitch to me an entirely different angle. I can only guess that an artist can draw so many of a thing before becoming tired of repetition, regardless of it being a commission. And I am starting to believe that the species I desired for the work simply didn’t push the envelope enough to fit the bill of his particular... project.

This was so much more than just getting the features of bat and wolf. This was about becoming myself. He’d deliberated the best way to give me what I’d be happiest with, and I had the impression he had the entire animal kingdom to sample from--within reason, of course, as he’s working within the shadows of the law. He told me briefly, without going into significant detail, that he was working on harnessing the strengths and idiosyncrasies of all life, going beyond the animal kingdom. It certainly sounds promising, whatever he means.

Ultimately, we came to the agreement that my splicing job would use the pacific lamprey as its base, but that I would get the vampire bat ears I’d sought coming to see him. The underlying work is complex, but everything is so finely tuned to enhance everything else. Cave salamander, and a strange anemone-like creature called a tunicate. Did you know the cave salamander has cultural roots with the Roma? The gills along my neck are mostly superficial, and the lungs don’t do much either--all that’s in my skin now. The nasal structure has a bit of a sonar thing to it, from both the salamander and lamprey; every smell is intense now. Slag, my mouth is filled with teeth now, cheeks ringed with lancets. Linnaeus tells me the tunicate helps with bloodborne pathogens. I later found it also helps with whatever I get exposed to in the bay.

Doesn’t help with the smell, though.

I’m glad that I could reach out to you, and keep correspondence with you. It’s taken a lot to get used to being aquatic, but I regret absolutely nothing that I’ve left behind. Living near the docks has been a slagged blessing. Perfect hunting grounds, and nobody bothers me so long as I stay off shore. I think you’d love hearing about the weird shit I find at the bottom of the bay. Believe it or not, it’s good money. Pawn shops hardly ever have the nerve to question where I got waterlogged goods. Not that it’s smart to question me. With this lean, cartilaginous skeleton, the splicing also yielded me significant height gain, mostly in my torso. The lengthening of my body was necessary to accommodate swimming muscles, but I slouch horribly so it’s hardly obvious just how tall I stand until I straighten up.

I so enjoy the shock value of doing that. Norms haven’t seen the likes of this nascent wave of chimeric hybrids, so I must be some kind of unholy cryptid to them. As though I’d continue unfolding in other ways were they to truly rile me. Admittedly, I do. ...But it’s rare to get a glimpse of the inside of my mouth.

I would love to meet you in person finally sometime. Get acquainted with one another’s new-found inhumanities. Get to play with that skin of yours. Show each other in person what the other’s body’s limits are. Maybe include your boyfriend in fooling around, if he’d be interested. I promise I won’t eat you, either of you, except perhaps in the most platonic sense. I cherish you too much.

Though really, I must admit, the hardest thing about adjusting to this wonderful luck of mine was finding a waterproof reader. Not that I get good Wi-Fi reception in the better half of the bay, nor that I’m able to recharge it without venturing onto land. I just don’t want to slag it up if I get it wet, you know?

This got meandering. I’m going to cut it off here, and leave everything open to discussion. It’s good to be back in touch with you. I wonder if, now that you’re what you write about, that you’ll write about yourself instead of just for yourself.

                                 --Don’t be shy.

▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼

To: 9augen@tricity.co.dv From: ketherphorbia@geemail.com Subject: Re: Sorry to have cut out on you like that.  —————————————

>I suppose I do... >You like storie... >I didn’t know w... >There’s still a... >I was so wary o... >I went in with ... >Turns out, I on... >Let me tell you... >After hearing t... >This was so muc... >Ultimately, we ... >Doesn’t help wi... >It’s taken a lo... >I so enjoy the ... >I would love to... >Though really, ... >This got meande... >--Don’t be shy.

I hope you understand how overwhelmed I am with all this.

I still don’t get how I didn’t pick up after all this time that you were in the vampire scene. That... kind of actually manages to make you even creepier than before. In a good way. I promise in a good way.

Understandable, then, I hope, just how jealous I am of you and what you have. This skin and bone deformity is nothing compared to having become an outright monster, complete with the appetites of one.

Slag it all, man.

You’ve got to tell me everything.

What was it like? To have the serum take effect? You must have been conscious.

Describe it to me.

Your semen must be very salty.

▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼

To: ketherphorbia@geemail.com From: 9augen@tricity.co.dv Subject: Re: Re: Sorry to have cut out on you like that. —————————————

>>I suppose... >>You like s... >>I didn’t k... >>There’s st... >>I was so w... >>I went in ... >>Turns out,... >>Let me tel... >>After hear... >>This was s... >>Ultimately... >>Doesn’t he... >>It’s taken... >>I so enjoy... >>I would lo... >>Though rea... >>This got m... >>--Don’t be...

>I hope you unde... >I still don’t g... >Understandable... >Slag it all, ma... >You’ve got to t... >What was it lik... >Describe it to ... >Your semen must...

Spouting off Ballard quotes at me. You must be a wreck...

Creepier than before? I suppose. You’ve always known my predilection for the classics. Fang and claw have always been a preference over tooth an nail.

What was it like? It was an utter entheogeny, my friend. Do you know what a grafting gun is like? To aid in the serum’s administration, it isn’t a single needle but six very fine-gauged needles, in a pneumatic hypodermic gun. In that medical implement, the approximation to vaccination is one which makes me smile to this day, chemicals which carried with them the proverbial antibodies which would make me capable of fighting off the plague of a chronic illness otherwise known to the public as “humanity.”

Linnaeus and his technician had before the procedure harnessed me like a modern Saint Andrew, the cross-like restraints having evolved thoroughly alongside the medicine which required them; their robotic cuffs could expand or contract, as could the distance of each of the hydraulic arcs of its aureole, which envelopd the entirety of the body of the device and acted as its structural integrity in the absence of a characteristic saltire structure.

He’d said that it had been difficult to replace this harness in particular after the ban, also said it had been necessary to be procured again. Implications lingered that the ban had bankrupted his agency, though there was something more to the specialty of this device. There had been incidents in the movement’s embryonic state, before he had implemented such measures as protective bondage.

He did not, however, go into further detail.

In deliberate irony or not, he went for the throat for the injection site. The serum itself felt much like a typical intravenous application, well-chilled and somewhat astringent. Heavy in the veins. Its seeming effervescence was not from gases, but of its heterogeneous components under high pressure. The syringe hisses pneumatically when it fires its contents into you One would suppose that someone with an aversion to needles would panic at hearing that sound in the sense of an injection; though, panic might be too considerate a word. Especially inches from one’s ear.

If he had not been referencing a phobia of needles in his practical necessity for the ring-like restraint system, however, it was the resultant agony of a teenage growth spurt, magnified across the span of the boughs of species, and sped up within a frame observable to the naked eye. It was as though I’d never truly experienced the metamorphosis to the adulthood I’d been meant to undertake. As a normal human being acclimates to his changing body, he might have his shins ache, or be inexplicably hungry, or suffer from bouts of hormone swings. All these things are exponentially worse when your cells are shifting between species, and trying to settle comfortably somewhere in between.

I never realized just what kind of masochist I was until that night.

Bone became cartilage. Skin became mucous membrane. Entire organs restructured themselves. There were entire minutes I could not breathe. My jaws dissolved, for the most part; simultaneously, the total surface of my expanding mouth sprouted dozens of rings of razor-sharp thorns. Nearly three times the vertebrae now comprise my spine. I was suffocating, and I was starving.

The metamorphosis extorts a great energy from a hybrid.

The feathered woman was the one to release me from the cross, whispering forth pedantic blandishments as I sank to rest on all fours. As I glared up at her, the extension of my external gills must have seemed more a threat display than a cry for oxygen. My head swam, but all of me needed to. I was too dizzy to take in anything either of them said, though I clearly recall the doctor finding some distinct pleasure and pride in how completely the serum had taken. “You’ll learn to breathe again,” I remember him admiring as the two of them permitted me at last to shove myself out the door and down the street.

I was fortunate that their secret clinic was so low in the city’s bowels, so close to the river. I didn’t care then how rank the water was, how I knew in my heart even just a fraction of the stuff might kill me. Water. I needed water. I don’t remember how I ended up at the dock, or how I ended up in the bay. I imagine I mostly flopped by inertia. The salt only stung for a moment, as it caught me off-guard; but then, as my faculties began to seep back into me, I could tell that the saline levels were facilitating my ability to breathe and take in the water.

So I was a saltwater fish now? I remember asking myself. It’s a good thing I’m a Jersey devil, then, I guess. I remember the insistent hunger, too, and that even then, my veins burned violently, especially those in my skull.

You know me well enough to know what state in which that experience left me. You also know me well enough to take pride in knowing this is an erotic work crafted for ketherphorbia, written for your own eyes only.

I suppose it’s not entirely out of line for me to return the favor, and ask you to describe your metagenesis.

A celebration. A coronation of wounds inflicted against the iniquity of manhood.

We’re both creatures now. More alike than either of us thought previous. Am I right?

I want to see more of you.

▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼

To: 9augen@tricity.co.dv From: ketherphorbia@geemail.com Subject: Re: Re: Re: Sorry to have cut out on you like that. —————————————

>>I hope you... >>I still do... >>Understan... >>Slag it al... >>You’ve got... >>What was i... >>Describe i... >>Your semen...

>Spouting off Ba... >Creepier than b... >What was it lik... >Linnaeus and hi... >He’d said that ... >He did not, how... >In deliberate i... >If he had not b... >I never realize... >Bone became car... >The metamorphos... >The feathered w... >I was fortunate... >So I was a salt... >You know me wel... >I suppose it’s ... >A celebration. ... >We’re both crea... >I want to see m...

There are no words to convey just how arousing that sounds. I guess the best compliment I can give is to divulge the mighty fine time I’ve had rereading that last email. I can only imagine how the fuck the man knew how bad your autoerotic asphyxia was. Maybe he noticed the rope-like bruising on your neck... I’ll get off your case, but I won’t stop getting off on your case. :)

You want to know how it went? The story’s one testament after another of my own clumsiness and stupidity. It started with a date with Cecil at the coffee shop on Garden Center. The woman spearheading Tri-City’s EPA presence had decided that same shop would be where she would unwind after the day she’d been having, and a point of conversation with Cecil resulted in her burning ears shouldering in to both drop information and grab some of her own from us. One thing led to another, and I ended up with enough information to suggest not just where the Supermarket Geek had taken his spill, but what it had been he spilled in.

I vacillate whether I have hindsight not to have researched my facts further before acting upon them. But it was enough for me, that the conversation had yielded an unprecedented factoid, to the point that said information spurred a particular writing session.

I don’t know if you read the “Quarter Oysters” wip I threw up on my blog a while back. I’ve written more recent things, but there are a number of reasons I can’t share them. Really, though. I don’t know. Maybe I can share them with you. You’ve already made me an accomplice to slag all of verbot shit. Turnabout’s fair play...

Any rate... After writing “Quarter Oysters,” I snuck out of the house and broke into the dump site I’d had described to me. The place was littered with toxic waste drums. In several spots, they were stacked up over a story high. I’d never seen such a thing be so organized as this. Many of them were leaking to spite their order. Some of them even glowed. There were two guards stationed, and I managed to duck them once; they’d almost found me the first time because I’d slipped and thrown out my knee, but I chewed on the shoulder of my shirt and reset it while in hiding. I found a drum of Fluxeldrin cordoned off by tape, and I had my tippling cane with me, so I had a vial to sample of it. I’d have taken more than one, since the cane contained four, but I already heard them coming for me, and I couldn’t hide fast enough. So, I only took the one and hastily reassembled my cane, rather than risk getting caught actively stealing it. They threw me out of the Yard, but they thought I’d just been a snooping idiot cripple. For once my youthful look and decrepit demeanor benefited me. They had no idea I’d smuggled my prize.

I shambled down the street and found myself a safe place where I could mull things over in private. The place was run down, even for a half-completed apartment complex. I’m not even joking, it was creepy as hell. Someone had been living there, I’m sure of it, and from what I saw in the rotting pressboard cabinets, I’m sure they were cooking drugs or bombs or something. There was even a nasty spring-box mattress there. And a bathtub, but not attached to anything. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the kind that installs into where the floor and wall meet when it’s just a free-floating hunk of fiberglass, but they are unsettling as hell when they’re not installed.

My reader was going dead because I’d used it as a flashlight while retrieving my prize, so I couldn’t really research after the fact. I knew Cecil would freak if he found me in possession of the stuff, so I had to act on it then and there. I didn’t have enough to rub it into my skin and get even coverage, so I decided like an idiot I had to drink it for maximum effect. Fluxeldrin glows an aggressive lime green, is oily like antifreeze, and smells like rotten cut flowers but worse. The consistency of it made it cling to every surface of my innards that it came into contact with, and the smell and taste of it had me fighting all compulsion to regurgitate every last drop of it along with all my organs. I flung the vial after downing its contents, too caught up in the moment to realize the recklessness of it. Fighting the urge to vomit, hands on my mouth trying to keep my lips clenched tightly together, I ultimately collapsed on the mattress, not even caring about the grime.

When I awoke, there was blood on the mattress where my face had been, crusted up around my nose and mouth. I threw out the same knee again upon trying to stand--but this time, I threw it out as though the joint weren’t actually connected, and I spilled out on the cement floor. I really wish my reader hadn’t been dead by then, because I would kill right now for a photograph of something that can make me vomit. And I mean I puked to the bile, the way that the fall had disheveled my leg. Couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I managed to get it back together, and gather my belongings. Putting my cane back together, I barely managed to get to my date with Cecil for lunch the next day.

I bullshat some stupid excuse about having had to hit the yards early that morning for something time sensitive. The night before he’d suggested that he could get me a job working at the Central Library, and after lunch he dragged me up there to show me around. I was interested in doing all this, really I was... but it was so hard with all my joints feeling like every surface was over-oiled. With fifteen minutes to closing time, I ran into the Geek trying to use his library card for the first time. Meeting him, I can guarantee you he’s a stalker too. ...I made an idiot out of myself and really shook him up trying to get him to eat my finger splints. I’m still messed up over that.

But that doesn’t even get to the verbot shit. The stress of having slagged up first impressions with the Geek had me pretty literally falling apart. All the physical problems my joint disorder’s inured me to, that all’s magnified by what the Fluxeldrin did to me. Worse for wear, I ended up trying to get in with Dr. Bell before the All’s Well Clinic closed for the evening. I didn’t manage it. So, I did the logical thing and broke in through the back door with the intent to “borrow” some pain pills, and wait out the night to see him first thing in the morning. The first week I was like this was the most excruciating, man. This condition has the unprecedented ability to drive me to do just about anything to alleviate these systems, when they flare up. And breaking and entering a pharmaceutical storage wasn’t outside the realm of what felt acceptable in my present state that night...

I fell face-first into Bell’s racket. He’s the only doctor in the city with knowledge of the metahuman condition, and the only one whom I can reasonably see helping me cope with what the Fluxeldrin did to me--but it comes at with a high price tag. I know his deal, but he has that B&E hanging over me. If I don’t do exactly what he says, he’s got ways to make my life hell. And he’s got me running shopping errands for him for the truck he cooks for his projects. He’s the heart of the Quarter, I just know it.

I’m so torn on the right thing to do because my dick doesn’t want what’s taking place to ever stop. I guess I’m telling you not just that I trust you not to tell anybody, but that I want some input on what kind of person it makes me, to be going along with this madness to avoid the fallout of shaking the foundation everything’s tentatively scattered upon. I’m scared, Rev. For Bell’s victims, for me, for Cecil. For everybody who’s ever gotten sick in the Quarter.

This got really long-winded and meandered into a “from one friend to another” situation. So, to make it up to you, a quick and dirty recap:

I broke into a stalking yard and stole a flask of fluxeldrin. And drank it. I drank something that fluoresced neon lime green, smelled and tasted like rot, and felt like gasoline. Something I knew could kill me. Something I knew was banned in its industry of origin due to its health hazards. I drank that. And it made me the shittiest meta that will likely ever be.

It’d be nice to meet, but I’m not sure how that would even work. You said you’re a fish now, but you’d be a fish out of water... Even I know better than to go anywhere near the toxic soup that dares to call itself Hudson Bay...

▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼ ▼

To: ketherphorbia@geemail.com From: 9augen@tricity.co.dv Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Sorry to have cut out on you like that. —————————————

>>Spouting o... >>Creepier t... >>What was i... >>Linnaeus a... >>He’d said ... >>He did not... >>In deliber... >>If he had ... >>I never re... >>Bone becam... >>The metamo... >>The feathe... >>I was fort.. >>So I was a... >>You know m... >>I suppose ... >>A celebrat... >>We’re both... >>I want to ...

>There are no wo... >You want to kno... >I vacillate whe... >I don’t know if... >Any rate... Aft... >I shambled down... >My reader was g... >When I awoke, t... >I bullshat some... >But that doesn’... >I fell face-fir... >I’m so torn on ... >This got really... >I broke into a ... >It’d be nice to...

Delight is in the details. Oh, would I have never expected a short story written explicitly for mine eyes alone--let alone with such minutiae of gauche detail! Were it under suspicion of being fiction, I would think you a master for the unfortunate believability of your tale; that the course of events you’ve described can’t not have happened.

I’ve been around the coastline of the Quarter since my rebirth. The scent you described is very potent for this nose, these gills. If I were to hazard assumptions, I do believe the stuff has begun to seep into the water table, into the river. Of all the areas of the waterways around this city I can’t tolerate, it’s there, believe it or not. Something about it is fundamentally repulsive, and no matter what it is, I can’t shake what feels like an archetypal fear of it. So, for you to so casually narrate your deliberate pursuit of obtaining this Fluxeldrin business, and so flippantly have imbibed it... Well, I harbor a revolting admiration for you.

You do find yourself between a rock and a hard place, I imagine. Several. Or maybe, you simply find yourself hard between all these rocks. I won’t force details, though I can certainly read between the lines. It’s difficult to say. But, knowing you...I needn’t remind you how often we’ve shared the fantasy of some pandemic mutating the masses like some fabric-rending reality, culling the unfit. Everything is perfect.

The world is fluorescing into wounds, as you so describe.

To say you’d kill for something graphic enough to make you retch. I’d love to see it, too. Systemically disarticulate you, just to watch what you’d do. Stretch out that stuff that used to be your skin, curious how translucent it is, admire the veins.

Calling the bay an unapproachable toxic soup, though? I survive just fine in it. It’s all I have, Kether.

Regardless.

I’m sure we can determine a way to make this work.

[butyouvealwaysbeenthecaretaker]

So I think my discomfort is four things:

1. Discussions about crazy hot slags are usually people talking about them, rather than us talking about that experience from the inside.

2. People essentialising about hot crazy slags, as a metaphor for this or that. In this thread, it's talking about gender. In male dominated spaces, you often see rhe same trope used as the "evil ex girlfriend". Again, these tropes don't address the experience from the outside but as a kind of symbol.

3. Systemic, political, activist & societal analysis is pretty useless. This is a really complex problem to have, and this kind of analysis - while interesting - isn't actually helpful day to day. Knowing it is, say, the patriarchy won't fix the problem.

I think this is similar to people who are transgender or who are anorexic. Lots of people have Ideas about how Society is causing these phenomena, totally misidentifying the root causes as something which looks similar.

As far as I can tell, being a hot crazy slag is a serious, deep-rooted trauma response. It's not really about gender or patriarchy or misandry or whatever. It's a mental health issue, and of course you cannot divorce mental health from the society in which we live. But the activist stuff you're supposed to do like - read zines, go to community discussion circles, write poems about your vulva - are woefully ill equipped to handle trauma, and an evidence-based therapy is essential. The activist stuff can be part of a holistic approach, but it's never provided enough.

4. People writing about these issues are incapable of taking an impartial, person-centric stance.

They prioritise what they want to get out of the argument, the way they need a prop to be used to make a point. That blinds them to assessing this phenomenon objectively & with compassion.

Like, given my experiences, I have a lot of time for the radical feminist perspectives about sex as inherently a site of abuse and power. But I have no desire to participate in their political project - my existence doesn't prove or disprove any theories, it's harder to work through an experience authentically when boxed in by theories, frameworks and ideas.

People need your existence to validate their pro/anti kink stance, their views on gender, their goals for consent activism.

But by definition, hot crazy slags have a Lot going on, a lot to work through, and it is very difficult work. It's harder to do this when people are putting their needs on you, their words onto your mouth, defining ways you ought to respond or behave.

And by definition, you're far too much of an outlier and a mess to represent these issues well. Both pro and anti kink forces will be frustrated with anything I have to say on the topic. My experience of consent really lets the side down. And so on.

----

I don't disagree with the orig thread - people prey on the vulnerable, and there are gendered ways this manifests. But im more interested in hearing from manic pixie nightmare girls themselves, writing about themselves, expressing their own subjectivity.

I don't have a problem with creepy dudes targeting me, so much as me targeting *them*: I am an agent in my horrible relationship choices, a participant in my messed up relationships, and I want to hear about living that. I don't want to read about these dynamics as abstract, systemic phenomena inevitably reproduced by gender: but as individual stories, and ideas for working through them.

I have so many Thoughts about this dynamic which don’t really have a place in the kinda combatative original thread, and they’re mostly about being that Crazy/Hot Slag, and what thst experience feels like from the inside.

It’s laudable but over-simple to frame this as a problem of creepy dudes targeting vulnerable girls. This *is* my authentic sexuality. I fetishise my own sexy/broken aesthetic. I also seek out these messed up relationships. I find them with explicitly abusive types, but also caretaker types where the relationship quickly becomes messed up *because I am in it*. And it’s not so simple as - when I am recovered, I will have happy healthy sex. Nor is it as comforting as - kink has nothing to do with abuse or mental illness!

So I don’t want to disagree with the orig thread or get involved, because it’s describing a real thing and how it makes me feel isn’t relevant. But how it makes me feel is - excluded from a conversation which is about me and which is, as far as I am concerned, partially my fault and responsibility. And wholly my experience and my texture of the world, something I can’t quickly disavow because I can blame it on the oppressive behaviour of strangers.

More thoughts once I’m off the train.