#and can obviously recognize he’s being fed exactly the same bullshit as the people who work for him lol

[vonkarma2]

he has beautiful dark brown eyes um I mean maybe the situation is more morally gray than we would have first thought right everyone

[lostgirlrewatch]

1x12 - (Dis)Members Only

Written by: Jeremy Boxen

Directed by: Steve DiMarco

Original Air Date: December 5, 2010

Almost exactly 10 years ago today, Lost Girl episode 1x08 - Vexed aired for the first time on Showtime.

It’s been a while, but I’m finally back on my Lost Girl bullshit.

The second to last episode of Season 1 has Bo and Dyson being all domestic and nauseatingly square and heterosexual, where they go undercover with Kenzi to a rich country club where illegal immigrant employees have been disappearing.

YIKES! What a loaded episode. 

And you know what, in honor of an evil megalomaniacal racist guilty of countless crimes against humanity being elected out of the office of US president, I’m gonna post my first Lost Girl Rewatch blg post in months. Yee haw!

I’m pretty sure Kenzi and Hale represent the entire Lost Girl fandom at this moment. This screenshot is so memetic, honestly. So accurate.

Kenzi and Hale, like the rest of us, are fed up with all this boring heterosexual nonsense, and make a bet on when Bo and Dyson will break up again.

For the record, I do support heterosexuality on this show. But only when it’s Kenzi and Hale. I adore them.

So some tree monster is nabbing illegal immigrant employees at a rich white people country club.

To be honest, this episode doesn’t ever delve too deeply into the political and social issues it’s nodding to. It never refers to the illegal immigrants as anything other than “illegals” or “foreigners” when referencing discrimination, and so it doesn’t directly address the issue of racism even though it’s clearly at play--most if not all of the illegal immigrants we see are from Latin America, Kenzi goes undercover as a Venezuelan, and all the country club members are rich white people. The show doesn’t directly acknowledge this even though it wants us to make the connection. It also doesn’t make clear what country we are in. Lost Girl tries to keep it’s location ambiguous throughout its run, so we don’t quite know if we’re in the US or Canada. But...I mean, come on. My money is on Canada.

Let me just explain the Fae of the Week up front: it’s called a “landwyght,” and it is bound to a piece of land on which it periodically feeds on the inhabitants to then fertilize said land with their remains. The remaining inhabitants on the land then reap enormous rewards in the form of riches, promotions, abundant plant growth, and so on. In this case, the landwyght periodically feeds off illegal immigrant employees so that the country club members reap riches.

I feel like it’s pretty obvious they were trying to create some kind of bloated metaphor here a la old school Buffy, where the rich white members of the country club are literally feeding off the sacrifices of the immigrant employees and becoming richer and richer while the sacrifices get swept under the table and forgotten.

But to be honest, I feel like it could have been executed better. The whole thing feels pretty half-assed, and the immigrant employees themselves--the actual victims--are never front and center where they should be. The main focus of our concern is Kenzi, who isn’t a real immigrant, only one in disguise. They only get a parting gift at the end of the episode when Bo lets them rise up and kill the monster. It’s lame at best. Feels very much like a white person wrote this in 2010. I do appreciate the effort, though.

Anyway, an old friend of Kenzi’s from her street days asks for help since his cousin Thumper is one of the employees who went missing. Bo cheekily asks if his cousin is a rabbit, to which the guy replies that it’s just a street name.

“This one’s name was Meow Meow,” he says of Kenzi.

So Bo and Dyson go undercover as a ritzy husband and wife while Kenzi goes undercover as an employee.

Bonus screenshot of Dyson teasing Kenzi and Kenzi flipping Dyson off. Later on in the episode, you will see the characters having a serious conversation about the case while Kenzi and Hale tease and swat at each other in the background, and it just feels very organic. One of the things I always liked about this show was how much the characters felt like real friends.

Creepy groundskeeper staring at Kenzi from the trees. Come on, it’s obviously him. They should already be on this guy’s ass. It’s him! Hello! The creepy groundskeeper!

What’s-her-face is the Chair of the Board of something or other, and her rival basically tells her that she’s going to unseat her. She makes this face when she says that she was afraid of that. Oh, dear.

Oh.

This is her whacking the woman in the back of the head with a golf club and knowingly letting the monster eat her, by the way.

So anyway, Saskia randomly shows up at Bo’s door with a charming sassy insult, as she does. God love her. Only Inga Cadranel could make the character this charming and yet this terrifying at the same time. She’s brilliant.

While Kenzi and Hale are searching the director’s office undercover, Hale tries to turn it into a sexy moment, which Kenzi quickly rebuffs with, “This is not a sexy undercover moment!” It’s another early cute moment.  🥺

Dyson is territorial and tells Bo that he doesn’t want to share her. Blah-dy-blah-dy-blah.

He then tells her that since she is a succubus, it is not in her nature to be monogamous. His exact words.

Bo replies, smartly, that she is more than just her species.

Way to go and mansplain to Bo what is and isn’t “in her nature,” Dyson. And good for Bo for basically telling him that that whole line of thinking is dangerous, untrue, and stupid. Like, WAY dangerous, untrue, and stupid.

Dyson admits that he is territorial and dumb. I do appreciate that, at least. He can see his own flaws. Whether or not he will make efforts to change is another story, but at least he recognizes is shortcomings, unlike Lauren.

Bo tells Dyson that the only way their relationship can work is if there are no secrets between them. Dyson guiltily agrees, but he and Trick are still keeping something big from her.

Dyson tells Trick that he is going to tell Bo everything if Trick doesn’t. Obviously, Trick is a prick about it.

So it turns out that it’s actually NOT the groundskeeper. Okay, fair enough. But still, it was driving me nuts all episode that he was the obvious culprit and it took them until the very end to question him. They could have narrowed their options and found out it was this lady a lot sooner.

Aaaand in the end, Saskia walks up to the precinct and assaults Dyson while he’s waiting for Bo. She declares that she is the one Dyson is looking for.

After Bo arrives and Saskia leaves, with Dyson dying on the floor, Bo manages to give Dyson some life energy back, mastering a new succubus skill that she once saw Saskia perform. We learn that Saskia’s real name is Aife, and she’s someone that Dyson knows.

That’s pretty much how the episode ends. No conclusions. All that’s left is the final episode in Season 1.

[wildroseofarran]

Training Day, Part I || Brett & Cam

Cam: Cam checked the text on his phone again to make sure the address matched the number on the house before him. He wasn't keen on inviting himself into a home other than the sheriff's.

He was a little nervous, both with the anxiety that comes with meeting someone new, but also the fact that he wasn't sure how Brett would react to a strange man showing up in the middle of the night and demanding to be fed. At the least he could blame it on Guildias.

With a smirk Cam leaned against the door frame and knocked gently on the door.  He knew he looked a little disheveled, but in a 'just had good sex' kinda way. A typical look he liked to sport after a good sparring match.

Brett: The little house tucked back into the trees would be quiet and still when Cam arrived. Residents absent, the only sign of life was a tiny canine head appearing in the lit window, no doubt looking for its owner.

Brett had taken the night shift as a favor to his deputy (and his deputy's relationship), which of course had meant that all the crazy that was going to happen today decided to fall into his lap because why the hell wouldn't it?

His only saving grace was the twenty-four hour gym that had opened in the next town. Brett had gone, gotten a workout in, and had destressed by the time he finally pulled into his driveway.

.....And saw something--no, someone--that wasn't supposed to be there.

Cam: After realizing the house was empty, Cam took a seat on the steps and leaned casually back onto his elbows. He could wait until Brett came home, and a part of him was relieved he wasn't waking Brett up.

When the car finally pulled up, Cam's head tilted to the side and his mischievous grin returned.

"Hail and well met!" He called to Bret when he left the car, and Cam raised his hand in a little wave. "I was told by a mutual friend of ours- real tall, long dark hair, really likes red beverages- that you'd feed me since I haven’t had dinner, so here I am." Cam gestured dramatically to himself and leaned back on the stairs.

Brett: Woodstock sat on the windowsill and watched the strange man on the porch. The little chihuahua didn't bark (he only barked at motorcycles, children, and squirrels) but he watched as intensely as any hundred-pound watch dog.

He didn't stand until Brett arrived, giving a single bark in greeting before returning to his vigilant stance almost at the same instant his owner did.

Although Brett's involved a hyperawareness of his phone and the service weapon in his possession.

There was zero amusement on his face at the stranger's greeting and even less in his tone. "Who are you and why are you on my porch?"

Cam: Cam jumped when the dog barked, surprised by the sudden sign of life in what he'd assumed was an empty house. That was a well-trained dog if it didn't bark at every person that neared the house. He then turned back to Brett when he spoke.

"I'm Cam. Guildias- real tall, long dark hair, likes red beverages- sent me here with a few messages," Cam replied, clearly unperturbed by Brett's lack of amusement as he continued to grin, "and he told me you would feed me, like I already said. "

Brett: Brett remained silent on the outside but inside he was groaning and could already feel an ocean's worth of anxiety bubbling in his stomach. It was just like his domitor to spring shit like this on him with zero warning.

"Deliver them and I'll give you directions to the nearest McDonald's."

Cam: "Well- see, those weren't his instructions," Cam replied with a little pout, "I'm really hungry, and MacDon’s is not nearly as yummy as a home cooked meal." Cam paused and tilted his head thoughtfully in the opposite direction. He could sense Brett was tense, or at the least he assumed, there was a stranger on his doorstep.

"If you wanted, I could make something for the two of us while delivering the messages- one being one of them being that I'm supposed to give you some sparring lessons. Your choice on when you want to let me kick your ass," he flashed an easy, cheeky grin as he hoped to lighten the mood a little.

Brett: "McDonald's is where you should have gone in the first place instead of telling Guildias you hadn't eaten. Then we wouldn't be in this particular situation." Ordinarily Brett would be a lot more polite than this but one, it was late. Two, there was some strange man on his porch essentially making demands. And three, number two had come about because of Guildias.

"I am not letting you have free rein in my kitchen. I'm still debating on letting you in at all." Sparring lessons? Guildias expected him to just let this man--no. Absolutely not.

There would be no lightening the mood today. "Sit and stay out here. If I have to feed you, you'll get a sandwich and like it."

Cam: Brett's reaction was starting to give Cam the impression he wasn't too keen on everything ghoul related. Or he wasn't too keen on strangers showing up at his house. Either way he was obviously not happy with the situation.

"Hey, he asked me if I'd eaten and I said no. It's not like I knew he was going to tell me to go to your house and teach you how to fight. Or that he'd tell you to feed me so- here we are," He shrugged and raised his hands, as if trying to absolve himself of Brett' discomfort.

"Okay okay, grumpy pants. I'll wait out here," he nodded and didn't move from his lounging position on the stairs.

Brett: If Cam only knew how correct his impression was.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of bullshit I’d expect from him,” Brett muttered, moving past the stranger—knowing his name didn’t change that—and heading inside. The last thing he said before closing the door was, “Don’t do anything weird.”

Then it was just a matter of greeting and taking care of Woodstock, putting his stuff away, and making Cam a sandwich that both satisfied Guildias’ order of feeding him and let Cam know exactly how he felt about the situation.

Cam: Cam caught the mutter but did as he was told, remaining in place until Brett returned. He was pretty sure Brett wasn't in the mood for probing questions, so he saved them for later when Brett was hopefully in a better mood.

While he waited, Cam played idly with a stick he found nearby and twirled it between his fingers.

Brett: Brett didn't return with a better mood (it was far too late and he was far too tired) but he did return with a sandwich.

Was it a phenomenal sandwich? No. But it was a decent enough sandwich.

He offered Cam a paper plate.

Cam: Cam took the plate with a nod and a quiet "thanks" before he bit into the sandwich. After a few thoughtful chews he glanced up at Brett.

"So how long have you been a ghoul?"

Brett: "A while." That was all Cam was going to get out of him today.

"I did some thinking while I was making the sandwich. You're gonna eat it and then you're gonna go away so I can sleep because I'm very tired. Then tomorrow morning you can come to the station and we'll have a conversation."

Cam: "Hmmm...." Cam continued to chew and hummed thoughtfully at the suggestion. "I follow- but I don’t do police stations," he wasn't about to say why, but being a vigilante did not usually go hand-in-hand with the police or their workplaces.

"Is there anywhere else you'd be willing to meet?"

Brett: “I have to work tomorrow.” He sighed. “I’m not going to arrest you or cuff you or throw you in a holding cell. I can’t, remember?”

Cam: "Mmmm...." Cam hummed again, nearing the end of his sandwich.

While Brett couldn't arrest him, that didn't mean one of his coworkers couldn't try, in theory. Cam really had no reason to worry, a standard holding cell and cuffs couldn't contain him, and as long as he didn't use his powers there was really no way for anyone to recognize him. Unfortunately, that wouldn't stop the nervous wedge that would churn in his stomach through the whole exchange.

"Alright," he said as he stood back up and handed Brett his empty plate. "Thank you for the sandwich, and I'm sorry to have bothered you so late." He meant that, considering how tense Brett was, he felt a little guilty for stressing him out. Then he turned to leave.

"You should also think about those lessons," Cam tossed over his shoulder as he walked away, "I'm sure we could do them at Guildias' place if we asked, and I'm pretty sure he's going to expect you to say yes."  Then Cam waved and disappeared into the night. He'd get the address for the station from Guildias, and give Brett a nice surprise bright and early with his arrival.

Brett: Pretty sure? Cam clearly didn't know Guildias very well. Brett was absolutely certain that's what his domitor expected from him. That's what was worrying him.

He gave Cam a nod that could've been acknowledgement or goodbye and went back inside.

The police station in Edenton wouldn't have been like others he'd probably seen. It was much smaller, much quieter, and with far less staff.

Deputy Peabody wasn't set to come in until later so the only people there when Cam arrived would Brett himself, a drunk man sleeping it off in a holding cell, and their aging receptionist who would wave Cam toward Brett's office before a single word could be uttered. She didn't even look up at him.

Cam: Cam was surprised by such a small station. Pleasantly surprised, as it made him significantly less nervous.

He muttered a soft "thanks" to the receptionist as she waved him in, and once he located Brett's office he knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter.

Brett: "Come in," Brett called, putting away the file he was working on and putting his computer to sleep. Theirs wasn't a particularly active station but he still liked to give his cases the privacy they deserved.

Cam: Cam entered the office and flashed Brett a grin.

"Morning, grumpy-pants," he greeted playfully, and he flopped into one of the chairs in front of Brett's desk. Cam's head tilted to the side and he gave Brett a small once-over.

"Feeling any better this morning?"

Brett: "Good morning to you, too," said Brett, sounding infinitely more pleasant than he had the night before. What a difference sleeping made.

"First, I'd like to apologize for my rudeness last night. You caught me at a bad time and in a bad place."

Cam: "No worries. You also did encounter a strange man on your doorstep in the middle of the night asking you for food, soooo I don't blame you for being in a bad mood," Cam shrugged and relaxed a little more now that he knew Brett's default mood was not a bad one.

Cam: "Sorry if my little arrival made the night worse for ya."

Brett: It certainly hadn't made it better, but saying that aloud would be rude and unproductive. "Thank you, I appreciate that. Although to be fair, most of my mood can be blamed on working late. No one enjoys that, even in a town as small as this."

Cam: "Mmmm, agreed," Cam nodded, knowing full-well how bad late nights could suck. Thankfully he didn't have too many of them at the moment with working at Charles' school.

"So, how long have you known tall, dark, and fangy?" And as soon as the phrase left his mouth he hoped Brett would not repeat that to Guildias.

Brett: Brett blinked. "....Did you just say tall, dark, and fangy?"

Cam: Cam grinned.

"You heard me. Although I'd appreciate it if you DIDN'T repeat that to Guildias."

Brett: "I'm surprised I was able to repeat that to you."

Cam: Cam laughed and shrugged.

"I give you props, it's a mouthful."

Brett: "It is. And definitely not a way I'd ever expect someone to use to refer to Guildias."

Cam: Cam's head tilted to the side and his eyebrow arched as his curiosity grew.

"Sounds like you and I have different interactions with him. Or he just puts up with my antics- actually- that's probably it," he chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest as he settled back into the chair. He wanted to ask so many questions, but all of them felt too personal for people who had just met. Cam stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles.

Brett: He could certainly see his domitor being amused by this man. Guildias found the most unlikely things amusing, often at the oddest times.

"I'd be willing to bet that we do." Cam could ask whatever he liked; of course, that didn't mean Brett was going to answer.

Cam: "So, how long have you known Guildias?"

Brett: "A few years."

Cam: "Damn, so I am the baby ghoul," Cam huffed, pouting a little. "How'd you- you know, become one?"

Brett: His brow furrowed. "You're his ghoul?"

Cam: Cam blinked.

"Oh- wasn't that obvious? Did you think I'm just some sort of messenger for him?" Cam asked, an amused grin on his lips.

Brett: "It wouldn't surprise me if he had messengers."

Cam: "Well I'm not. I'm his ghoul. He... saved me. And you?"

Brett: "No comment."

Cam: "Lame," Cam pouted, but he didn't press. "So, my other message for you is that you need to talk to him about getting a tattoo- his mark for being his ghoul. So other things out there know not to mess with us. Protection and stuff- according to what Guildias said.

Brett: Brett very visibly tensed. His hope that Guildias would decide not to go through with that notion had apparently been in vain.

Cam: Cam noticed the tension, and he nodded.

"Me too... it makes me uncomfortable, but it makes sense. And if worse came to worse, tattoos are removable. Or cover-up-able."

Brett: "It's not the tattoo. It's what it represents."

Cam: "Oh- same. I already have tattoos so that part doesn't bother me." Cam rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't like.... feeling like someone else's 'thing' to mark- if that's the part you're getting at."

Brett: "Yes, that's what I'm getting at. The whole being branded like cattle."

Cam: "I don't think Guildias sees us as cattle. Other vampires- the one who Guildias saved me from- I'm pretty sure she did."

Brett: "Guildias isn't the problem. It's the whole concept of not being able to go anywhere with only human precautions. It's not being able to hide in a crowd because someone in that crowd might be a vampire and god forbid they sniff out what you are. However much the brand--because that's exactly what it is--protects you, it also serves as a reminder of how little power you have every single day. There's no tricking yourself into forgetting after that shoe drops."

Cam: Cam listened intently, his head cocked curiously to the side.

"You don't have a lot of confidence in yourself, huh? Or you've just got a lot of fear?" he asked pointedly.

"Who gives a shit if you're sniffed out? You're not powerless, and far less so now that you're a ghoul. And even if your opponent is stronger or faster than you- whatever. There are ways to get around that."

Brett: "Who gives a shit? I do. I didn't ask for any of this. Me being sniffed out doesn't just put me in danger, it puts everyone I love in danger.  It puts every innocent civilian in this town in danger. It already has. More than once."

Cam: "So- what you're saying is that you'd rather be a weak human, a ready and waiting meal for a different monster to show up to try and kill you and those you love anyways? Because let me tell you, being a ghoul or not- you still encounter those things."

Brett: "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. Because if I were human, the word 'no' would actually still be in my vocabulary. It would actually still have meaning. My 'no's mean nothing anymore. I don't get the luxury of having them. I don't get the luxury of giving consent, for anything."

Cam: Cam was quiet for a moment, realizing that there was more to Brett's line of thinking than Cam had the info for, so he wanted to choose his words carefully.

"Guildias has never made me do anything I don't want to."

Brett: "Like I said. Guildias isn't the problem. He also isn't the only vampire."

Cam: "Then why not use being a ghoul as a way to defend yourself from those that would ignore your consent- that's why I'm getting at. There are ways to take those people down."

Brett: "I don't care about taking people down. I'm not Captain America. I just want a normal quiet life without the chaos of what I am."

Cam: "Well, it sucks to suck. We don't get to choose what we are sometimes," Cam's smile faltered slightly, as he knew all too well about lack of choices. He sure as hell didn't choose to be a mutant, and he'd lost plenty because of it.

"What matters is what we do with what we are. I choose to use it protect those I care about, and make sure I never lose anyone again. At least not because of my own weakness. I guess it's your choice if you want to mope about it," he shrugged.

Brett: "You've clearly had a very different experience being a ghoul if you can reduce everything I've said to me moping. How fortunate for you."

Cam: "I'm not just a ghoul," Cam replied, his smile fading. His eyes flashed a bright green before it faded as well. The next second Brett's desk shifted, shaking slightly as if waking from a long slumber, and it began to walk in a circle around the little office.

"I'm a mutant- so just because I don't have a terrible experience being a ghoul, doesn't mean I don't understand where you're coming from. Have you ever been abducted and experimented on? Tortured? Watched your friends die just so some bastard can get a reaction out of you? Just because of your genes? I know what it feels like to have my autonomy taken away- what it feels like to have your 'no's mean nothing. So don't be an ass and assume I don't get it."

The desk returned to its place in front of Brett and settled, now unmoving.

Brett: Brett's reaction was nearly violent in its quickness.

He leapt out of his chair and flattened himself against the filing cabinet behind him, ignoring the sudden pain of the metal hinges and handles jabbing into his back as his eyes squeezed shut.

It wasn't real. None of it was real. It was just like the hearts on the tile and the sickening lavender smell and his things and Bo disappearing it wasn't real. It wasn't real, everything was fine, his office was just as it was supposed to be. No hearts on the tile, no lavender. Everything was fine.

Cam: Cam's eyes widened as he saw Brett's reaction, and that certainly wasn't what he was expecting.

"Hey..." he said softly, afraid to approach Brett in any way and possible make the situation worse. "I'm not going to hurt you, dude. I don't know where your head is taking you, but we're in your office. You're safe."

Brett: Brett's mind was back at his house nearly a year ago but something was wrong. He wasn't at his house. It didn't smell or feel like his house.

He needed to get safe. He needed to be safe until he figured out where he was.

And then, without Brett realizing what he was doing, he disappeared.

Cam: Cam jumped as Brett disappeared and he slowly stood up to reach for the place Brett had just been standing.

"Brett?"

Brett: So long as Brett didn't move he would remain invisible. He could hate and resent what he was all he wanted, but the truth of the matter was that he was growing stronger with every training session and more proficient with his powers.

Cam: Cam was surprised to feel resistance where he did, half expecting Brett to have disappeared altogether somehow. He could remember Guildias mentioning this ability, but he'd yet to figure out how to use it.

"Brett? You're in your office. You should come back," he said quietly as he gently squeezed Brett's shoulder.

Brett: Well that definitely got Brett to move and become visible again, if only to get as far away from Cam's hand as he possibly could while still remaining in his office.

Cam: "PTSD?" Cam asked, looking at Brett with an expression that said he was quite familiar.

Cam: He placed his hands on his hips but didn't move to touch him again.

Brett: Brett looked away, unable to fear meeting the look on Cam's face. Already his neck was flushing red with embarrassment and shame, and if he could concentrate enough to disappear again, he would. He didn't need this man seeing him like this. Or anyone else for that matter.

"I don't like being touched," he said quietly.

Cam: "That's fine- I'm sorry for touching you," Cam returned to his seat and eased back into it.

"Have you talked to anyone about it? Whatever's bothering you?" Cam asked, and after hesitating for a moment he added, "it helps."

Brett: "Guildias." He hoped that was enough to indicate that it was a vampire related issue.

Cam: "Ah, so that's why being a ghoul is so hard for you?" Cam asked, making the connection with Guildias' name.

Brett: He just nodded. "Among other things."

Cam: Cam nodded as well. "I've been there. The PTSD part anyways. I’m sorry."

Cam: "I didn't realize my powers would do that to you. I was just trying to make a point."

Brett: Brett nodded again. "Consider it made."

Cam: Cam rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "You'll adjust. I bet all of this is pretty overwhelming when you're not used to it."

Brett: "I've been at this for a while."

Cam: "Gotcha," Cam's head tilted curiously, but he resisted the urge to ask what caused such a visceral reaction to his powers.

"So, when do you want to learn how to fight?"

Brett: "I need to talk to Guildias."

Cam: "About?"

Brett: Cam didn’t really expect Brett to tell him the answer to that, did he? If so, he’d be disappointed.

“Personal matter.”

Cam: Cam rolled his eyes and held up his hands in defeat.

"Alright. Keep your secrets," he stood up from his chair and gave Brett a parting wave.

"I'm sure Guildias can give you my number. Let me know when you’re ready to get stronger." And he slipped out of the office and back into the crisp morning air.

[dominavontana]

Unbecoming - the #zerofucks post or on Vampires and radical #selflove

The call was to go down to the river. The plan was to go the the library. But my guides were incredibly insistent so I relented, scraped my plans and pointed the truck towards the mountain.

I’ve long since given up on wearing a bathing suit when I swim alone in the mountains. What’s the point and naked is how the river is meant to be experienced.

Once I crammed myself down in the crevice between a rock and a hard place - the perfect natural bath tub - I said to who ever was directing and supposedly listening now, “Well, I’m here.”

“That thing you think you been doing?” Came the reply.

“Yea.” I said.

“That work you think you been doing?”

“Yea,” I said again, this time with a bit of a proud smirk, thinking back to when I went pro over ten years ago.

“That was all just your training (translation: you ain’t done shit yet), the real work begins now (stay humble).”

Message received.

More like message finally articulated because I gotta say there has been a type of clarity on the rise in my life in the past couple of years. Call it coming out of the fog of some many things but it is clear to me I have built the house, and now it is finally time to begin living in it.

My house is the network of relationships that I maintain thanks to the digital aids that surround me constantly. I am always in touch. Ever alone and always in touch. Being in touch allows me to have the support, lover, reminders, and deadlines that I need to do the real work, the work that starts now. That started months ago, years ago even, but that is finally ready to be unleashed to its full potential. Being alone allows me the time to make good on those nudges.

I’ve learned I’m a severe introvert - what I mean is my alone time is mandatory and my need for it runs deep. You can always count on a warm reception when I’m out in public because I assure you I have planned it that way so that there is plenty of Me time before I have to take that leap again that every empath must take every time they go out in public.

When you’re born poor to uneducated parents it doesn’t take much to feel like you’re “dreaming big”, so suffice it to say my dreams were astronomical by the standards I grew up with. I was preached to about poverty and the woes of money and then that was spoon fed to me with a side of how honorable it is to be poor and futile to wish for more and both are bullshit.

Right now a lot of vows I took knowingly and unknowingly earlier in life are coming to light. I’m experiencing the breaking or renewal of these vows, like the vow of poverty I was spoon fed as a child. Abundance is not a bank account, it’s a state of mind. The two are irrevocably linked though. I know a lot of people who are very financially “successful” and never feel satisfied. I call them clients. Desire is the root of all things. Hunger is the shadow side of desire. One without the other is hollow.

Asia. Check.

Emotional Sobriety. Check.

#MeToo. Check.

Turning 40. Check

Etc Check Check Check

Conclusion?

Zero fucks.

Zero fucks is not not caring. It is the opposite. Zero fucks is a radical act of self love.

I am no longer available prey to the emotional vampires that often occupy the front of lyft rides or appear across the counter when I didn’t ask for their help. By some magical grace of the divine I have finally learned how to flip that god damn switch. I can cut a bitch off now and it actually sticks. No more mansplaining. Or hideous flirting. When you’re being abused it’s easy to accept one sided behavior from strangers because you don’t even realize it’s wrong. You’ve been conditioned. But I’ve removed myself from that cycle juuust long enough now and have juuust the right kinds of all the kinds of love in my life right now that I feel strong enough to say no and expect to be heard and respected. Intent. It’s everything. I’m slinging a lot of self affirming, loving and creative intent right now.

That and a ton of time to rest. Like months and weeks and years of being alone on the land or in another land to find the stillness inside myself because fuck they fucked me up as a child aaannnddd simultaneously prepared me to perfection to follow my divine path. So thanks Mom (Sag) and Dad (Pisces). Any astrologers in the house? You’re welcome. It’s a good laugh. The bitter, helpless, ironic kind that makes millions on stand up tours.

I don’t feel fragile exactly. Just new. Full of Wonder. But it’s all so familiar. I’ve changed. They’ve stayed the same but my changing has changed the way I see them. See all of it.

I have more than the current social climate and my own history to thank for this milestone. I also have my husband to thank, the slave. He was once dubbed “the sniper” by a group therapist. My husband has the magical gift to cut a bitch off so fast so low there is nothing left to say literally nothing and he does it energetically more than anything else. He used it against me many times during the early years of our relationship. Obviously he was dealing with addiction and I forgive him and that hasn’t happened in a very long time. Yes and however, I also have stood on the other side of it now. I recognize much of it for him is cultural. There’s more than one culture that will shut a bitch down three times before even taking the time to listen. This much I know is true. I think of him each time I accomplish this new magical feat. There’s been a lot of turmoil, but my slave is also the most brilliant man I’ve ever met and I’ve learned a lot from him. Along with his hot bod and ability to melt my heart with a giggle it’s is why I married him.  

It is not cruel to set up boundaries with strangers and then insist that they be respected but it’s challenging for an empath. It was challenging for me, until now. Each day I feel stronger and more present than I did the day before. Part of me feels like I’m waking up to a dream. And it’s real. In Bali they would call this an activation, the new found awareness and the paradigm shifts that I am experiencing right now. I would call it turning 40 and Venus retrograde through my sun and ascendant and taking a year off to travel and finally kicking my codependent habit and building the family by choice of my dreams for over ten years now and seeing that really, really come into focus in all it’s beauty.

Happy halloween you freaks.

[hotelconcierge]

THE FALSE NEGATIVES

In The Company Of Men (1997) opens in an airport where two middle management guys have just arrived: a bespectacled seborrheic named Howard, and an ex-jock good ol’ boy named...Chad.

Howard walks out of the bathroom. He’s been hit, by a woman, just for asking the time—like, Mountain or Central. “Wait, wait. You're telling me about some sort of unprovoked assault here?” Chad says, “Did she give you the time at least?” 

Howard doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even seem to recognize it as a joke. And therein lies the problem, for him and everyone else.

The two men are in town a few weeks to work at a branch office. They exchange complaints. This place blows. The job sucks. Coworkers are vultures. Can’t trust anyone. Howard just got dumped by his fiancée. Chad says he just got dumped too.

CHAD: I'm standing there, no note...not a “thanks for four years of a roof over my bleached-blonde head”...nothing. You know? And it comes to me...the truth. I do not give a shit, not about anybody. A family member, a job, none of it. I couldn't care less.

HOWARD: Geez.

CHAD: Don't get me wrong. We're pals.

HOWARD: Same college.

CHAD: Exactly, and that means something. But these other folks...You know, jump on while the going's good? No, that will not do.

“Circle the date on this one, big guy,” Chad says, “We keep playing along with this 'pick up the check,' 'can't a girl change her mind' crap...and we can't even tell a joke in the workplace? There's going to be hell to pay down the line, no doubt about it.”

They move to the hotel bar.

CHAD: I don't want to shock you. It's just a thought. It's the same crap we played in school, only better, because we get a payback on this messy relationship shit we're dealing with.

HOWARD: No, right, it's funny, it is. it's just...way out there.

CHAD: I think it would be refreshing, I really do...and very therapeutic coming off the women we just have. 

HOWARD: Well, just for instance, who would it be?

CHAD: No idea. But she’s out there, I know it. Just waiting for us to find her.

Let’s start here.

They say guilt is omniscient; that doesn’t mean you can’t throw sand in its eyes. Unlike shame, guilt is universal, at some level everyone knows that violating the NAP makes you a dick. But suppose you like, really want to. How do you get from Crime and Punishment to Crimes and Misdemeanors?

The above scene is demonstrative. First, replace the human object with an idea. Hurting an innocent woman is obviously evil—plus, why would you do that? Women are soft, thoughtful, have nice voices, etc. But hurting “women” in general? “Women,” who smile right past you and say “that’s so funny!” instead of laughing and sing along to vapid breakup songs like they could ever know the pain of a sensitive incel? God knows “they” want to hurt “men.”

Second, remove the subject: you aren’t going to do anything. A passive process, inevitable given the laws of thermodynamics, is going to occur. You remember that one scene in Glengarry Glen Ross? “Somebody should stand up and strike back. Somebody should do something to them.” Deus vult.

But that explanation doesn’t do justice to Chad’s cunning. He alternates between 1) “big guy”-ing Howard re: office politics and romantic troubles, and 2) brutal, frequent, almost compulsive misogyny. These are twin strategies in the same campaign. When Chad says, “some corn-fed bitch who'd mess her pants if you sharpen a pencil for her,” Howard gives a single snort of laughter. I know that one. It’s a social laugh, slave morality coming straight from the spinal cord, brain playing catch-up, “oh, it’s funny because it was a joke.” Like all the nice construction workers asking ladies to smile, Chad wants to be a friend. It would be rude not to laugh at the joke of a friend. But when your ego endorses a perspective your superego rejects, you build up a debt of guilt. The heavier your debt, the more you have to borrow from the abstraction of ideal over real. The more you suspend judgment, the more you have to rely on the judgment of others. The more crimes you share with an accomplice, the deeper you enmesh yourself in conspiracy. So a few hours later and a little drunk:

HOWARD: What'd she say? 

CHAD: "I don't trust anything that bleeds for a week and doesn't die."

(Both laugh)

CHAD: So you in?

HOWARD: Aw, shit man...yeah, I’m in.

CHAD: Alright, let’s do it. Let’s hurt somebody.

Somebody shows up the next day.

The object is a deaf woman named Christine. Reads lips, self-conscious about this so wears headphones so coworkers will have to attract her attention. A copy-editor or something, 90 words per minute. Brunette and pale, short hair, slender neck, narrow frame, Améliesexual, Forever 21.

When a male coworker informs Chad of her disability, Chad does an imitation “dolphin voice” and gets a big laugh. Then he goes and introduces himself.

CHAD: You're new here, aren't you? Don't be embarrassed. We're all new sometime, right? (Pause) That's a lovely blouse.

“A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y is like the Holy Grail to this poor wretch,” Chad tells Howard. Howard, sitting down to urinate, gives an ambiguous response. Chad: “You're not pussing out on this, are you, Howie?”

HOWARD: All I mean is, I think everything's a business, whatever you go into. Your typing there or my opportunity directing this project. Doesn't matter. Every walk of life's an industry...from child care right on up.

HOWARD: So, on a personal level, that's what I'm doing here. I was walking by, saw you, figured, "What the hell," you know? You probably have a boyfriend, but you gotta take your chance, right? And who knows? It might turn out to be mutually advantageous. So, that's really just a long-winded way of saying...I'd like to go out sometime. Maybe get a drink? My name's Howard, by the way. I'm free this weekend.

Act III shows the two Lotharios in parallel. Howard’s dating sim begins with a motorized tour cart ride at the zoo. Howard arrives late, blames this on having to “ream out” some employees, has to define “ream,” clarifies that, no, you don’t have to feel bad for them, like, it was no big deal. Then he backtracks and admits he was lying—none of that happened, he ran back to the hotel to change his shirt. “I get so used to saying what I think people want to hear...I forget they might just want the truth sometimes,” Howard says. “It’s all right,” Christine says, “Just remember: I can't hear you when you're lying.”

Cut to:

CHAD: I have to face this. My job ends here in a few weeks, and...I want you to know that whatever you do is all right with me. I don't care about your dating other guys...and if we're apart for a while or...

CHAD: Well, I just want you to know that, whatever happens, I trust you. Okay? Oh, boy, this is really hard. I like you. There, I said it. It's out. I'll eat better now. It's true. I look at you, and I see...good, nice, kind. I am very happy with you, and I want our relationship—you feel this could be a relationship, right? I want to nurture it and just see us blossom.

Christine then proceeds to eyelash flutter like Chad said he cried listening to Carrie & Lowell. We have the power of camera angles, but even without them—this is so, so, so obviously bullshit, right? Like a Markov chatbot trying to simulate “boyfriend”? But hold up. Under oath: can you point out the lie?

Chad’s branch office job does end in a few weeks. He really does see Christine as good/nice/kind, trusts her, doesn’t care if she dates other guys, wants the relationship to blossom (at least in the short term). Contrast with Howard’s “ream out” anecdote, which, objectively: Fake News, Not An Argument, Myth Busted. And yet if Howard hadn’t confessed the plot would have moved on without a missed beat—to you, the viewer, it rings exaggerated, but not intuitively false. 

And you’d be right, because truth cannot be extracted from individual words. Here’s the 2x2 for all y’all Ribbonfarmers: factual-truth = math; factual-lie = lie of omission; counterfactual-truth = metaphor; counterfactual-lie = I’ve got a bridge to sell you. I’m not pulling a po-mo fast one. Objective truth is great, it gave us Youtube and stuff. But words are imprecise no matter how many footnotes: since they compress preverbal desire, they always contain a lie of omission. And metaphors, though annotated with “citation needed, does not actually look like a summer’s day,” sometimes reveal crucial and unspeakable truths about the algorithm that creates them.

Point: lies cannot be proved or disproved by geometry. Counterpoint: still, being lied to is a distinct subjective experience. Example: when a minor fall to major lift makes you spit rage, it’s never because the song is particularly bad, no one actually enjoys math rock but no one gets mad at it either. The anger is instead a response to perceived manipulation. People get mad at rap/country/Bieber because these genres lean heavily on identity; the artist is, from the first guitar twang/phat beat/“baby,” trying to convince you of something about him/her/yourself. “Well, doesn’t everyone do that?” Extremely duh, but note that if you accept the artist’s claim as true or false then the nausea doesn’t occur. You can’t be manipulated if you’ve made up your mind, a sufficiently bad lie stops being one, see also, camp.

That’s the horror of the middle-place: if you just let yourself slide, if you just stopped being you, you would like it. Times Square neon makes me vomit blood but Casablanca is charming despite the same level of weapons-grade ideology. The former might persuade me to drink Suntory, the latter has zero chance of getting me to enter World War II. The propaganda of the past—the art of the past—will always be better than that of the present, not just because of selection bias but because it doesn’t feel manipulative, and it doesn’t feel manipulative because it’s not talking to you.

Ergo: we feel lied to = when we can tell + that we are being told + what we want to hear. And this is why Howard’s anecdote doesn’t feel like a lie: it wasn’t. Sure, the words were bullshit, and maybe he fooled Christine, but what he communicated to you—“I want to be seen as a man despite my multiple and obvious failings”—was 100% genuine.

Why can’t Howard tell a fib? One possibility is that he learned about girls from hentai and Roosh V and so thinks that women are attracted to toughness rather than the conquest of toughness. But more likely is that he doesn’t want to: he’s more interested in having Christine see him a certain way than in giving the Good End answers. So Howard, like you, tries to work Million Dollar Extreme references into his Tinder convos, which makes him a narcissist and a tool but not a liar. Proof of the pudding is that it doesn’t work.

Contra Chad: how come it’s so obvious that he’s lying? But of course: the words weren’t meant for you. Chad has self, not self-image, and so no compunctions about roleplaying to get what he wants. For us, his dialogue falls in an uncanny valley. But if you’re the target audience...

“Did she give you the time at least?” Howard never laughs at Chad’s deadpan because it’s too on the nose, it’s exactly what a friend should say, fact check = TRUE, bleep bloop. Howard social-laughs at Chad’s misogyny because it’s so absurd, he must be joking, fact check = FALSE, bzzzt. Christine makes the same mistake: Chad speaks the language of romance, she agrees to see him as such, and she stops asking questions. They outsource their superego to the etiquette of conversation, and who can blame them, their fantasies are coming true. Only you have the outside view, or so it seems: perfect etiquette masking irony, irony masking anger, anger masking unspeakable sociopathy: that even the anger is fake. But if you see that, then he was talking to you, that was the whole point, to give a winking apology to a fellow conspirator—“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

And therein lies the problem, for you and everyone else.

In The Company of Men does not have a happy ending.

Chad sleeps with Christine. (“God, I am just so taken with you. I just...”) Howard sees them at lunch together and gets worried. He pulls some work levers to get Chad out of town, refurbishes his ex-fiancee’s ring, and invites her to dinner.

HOWARD: Maybe this isn't the perfect time...but I care about you, Christine. I want you to know I like you a lot. I need—I just don't want to lose you.

Christine cuts him off. She’s made a horrible mistake by letting things get this far: she’s in love with Chad.

CHRISTINE: It’s all my fault...You both should have known about this...When you don't date for a while...you wonder...if you're attractive...or interesting to someone. You let things get out of hand first chance you get. That's what I did.

Pause.

HOWARD: We did know.

“Chad? He doesn't like you. He loathes you. He detests you and your pathetic retard voice. That's what he calls it. Christine, you bought that shit?” 

Christine freaks out and screams that’s not true, stop it, but Howard keeps going, spilling the beans about the game, apologizing and begging:

HOWARD: Can't you see I'm the good guy? I'm the good person here. I can't alter what we've done, and I'm a fuck...and a bastard and everything else on your list, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm telling you...I love you.

He brings out the ring.

HOWARD: It's not a game to me anymore. Take it.

Christine doesn’t, and Howard promptly explodes that she’s “fucking handicapped,” “you think you can choose, men falling at your feet?” and so on.

The standard take on this type of (very common) story is that even though [beta male] loved [manic pixie] more than [Chad], the beta male’s complaisance to the patriarchy makes him “just as bad.” Fair enough, consequentialism ftw, but it’s suspicious that the narrator of these tales is often the beta male protagonist himself. No one self-flagellates unless they get off on it, and the above take hides an assumption: that (e.g.) Howard really was in love with Christine.

Was he? There’s no doubt he had some of the relevant chemicals floating around. Yet it’s very possible for abusers to love their victims and cheaters to love their cuckolded spouses. It’s very possible to love each and every other member of the orgy. Hell, I know some meditators who can connect with the astral rhythms of life itself—and they aren’t bullshitting, they really feel it. But drugs are cheap. What does your oxytocin rush mean for anyone besides you?

I’ll tell you why Howard thought that he was in love: he went through the motions. Just as Howard decided that Chad was his friend because that was the role he played, he decided that Christine was marriage material because...she was there. They had nothing in common, they had zero chemistry, but she was there. You gotta serve somebody. “I need—I just don’t want to lose you.” Love as manifest in the material plane requires sacrifice, is sacrifice, of opportunity if nothing else. Howard’s love is meaningless because it costs him nothing. Maybe Uber-Howard would still care about Christine, but not only is it impossible for Christine to know that, Howard himself doesn’t know. Power doesn’t corrupt, power reveals that you were corrupt all along. “Can’t you see I’m the good guy?” See what?

The next day, Howard gets demoted at work. Something went wrong with a fax machine and the copy came out too light; yeah, like a symbol. Chad sees Christine one last time. She confronts him. Chad tries to keep a straight face and then breaks out grinning: “Fuck it. Surprise.”

CHAD: So how does it feel? I mean right now. This instant. How do you feel inside, knowing what you know?

Christine slaps him and begins to sob.

A few days later, Howard shows up at Chad’s place. He’s distraught. Chad jokes around about the contest, then gestures to the other room, where his old girlfriend is sleeping in his king-sized bed. “What the hell? I mean, when did she crawl back?” Howard says. “She never left, Howie,” Chad says, “She’s always been right there.” “Then...why? Why, Chad?”

Good question. The first clue is when Howard runs into Chad and Christine on a date: “Howard and I have the same alma mater. He graduates a semester ahead of me, and now he's my boss,” Chad says, and for once the bitterness creeps in. The second is when Howard, blaming the higher-ups, sends Chad out of town:

CHAD: The real injustice here is if I could throw a curveball—you know, a really good one—just that, nothing else, no education, nothing—none of this would matter. Play in the big leagues for ten years, retire to Oahu.

Chad is handsome, confident, clever, and quite possibly a representation of The Great Deceiver himself. And yet, to get laid, Chad has to contort himself into a puppy. To get paid, he has to kiss ass to Windows 95 robots who wear beige and drink decaf. He spends the day humoring people who won’t acknowledge the joke—that if he could just play stupid arbitrary baseball, he wouldn’t have to. He’s powerless: no matter how well Chad tells his lies, the system determines the signifiers into which these lies fit. 

But Howard—Howard believes in the system. He’s exactly the sort of person who created the phatics that Chad has to obey, who follows even the most vacuous rules with moral seriousness, clings to them all the harder as they turn him into a self-loathing nebbish. Chad’s revenge is to turn the rules against him, to show that no matter how oppressive social protocols get, they will always oppress Chad less, since he’ll say whatever bullshit is required while you’re stuttering your feelings on Whitman. The more checkboxes you demand checked, the more you favor the liar. Chad is bound by the rules of the game, but these rules are what gives him relative power: they make people trust him. “Because I could,” Chad says. “See you Monday.”

There’s a practical lesson here. Every day ambulances scream into the ED carrying young men who moan and complain that they are bedeviled by wine-loving dog moms, fluent in sarcasm, and yet for some reason they can’t get the time of day from those goth chicks who have tongues stuck out and eyes rolled up at all times. I’m not here to kinkshame, send pics if you’re a goth chick with your tongue stuck out and eyes rolled up at all times. But please be aware that lusting after a mannequin is a surefire way to get [extremely Taleb voice] fooled by randomness: the more detailed the script, the more you favor the actor.

I’m not saying you can’t have a type, but the person willing to sacrifice that last ounce of selfhood will always be closest to your 21st century ideal of bimboification. “There are smart women, but I don’t know many women with truly original ideas,” says the cerebral young man who needs four search operators to find adequate porn. Don’t worry—this process is dehumanizing for the fetishized person, but it’s dehumanizing in the other direction as well: only someone who doesn’t care what you think about them, about their real self, would consent to play a fake.

The problem with fetishization is that it prizes symbol above reality, and unfortunately for Christine, dating is systematized fetishization. Not a diss—this is how dating is supposed to work. If our intuition for love is inculcated by Disney, dating replaces the hero’s journey with its symbols: clothes and music as proxy for backstory; movie or pub crawl as proxy for adventure; astrology, Myers-Briggs, and 36 Questions as a proxy for intimacy. Dick pics and nudes test sexual potency without costing the two drink minimum, text and emoji idiosyncrasies reveal more about class and education than a brunch and a half. Dating is an attempt to economize romance, it’s unsurprising that the term was coined in the wake of the Industrial Revolution.

“You know that birds sing, right?” Sure, but nobody has any illusions about what the birds are looking for. I’m not knocking ritual, just ritual that pretends it’s something deeper. If milord sends milady twelve roses, a thoroughbred, a fiefdom, and a bard playing D’Angelo, this courtship is not taken as evidence of good character. It is judged on its own merits, i.e. this guy is either really interested or thirsty af.

This would be common sense except that every force in modern society is opposed to it. Since women are valued as approximations of fetish, they a) lose points for wearing the wrong symbols, and b) lose points if a partner doesn’t fit the brand. So now the first date Scantrons become radiant with their own fascination, because even if they have no meaning except “went through the motions,” everyone on Facebook is acting like they do, and “he seemed nice” is no excuse for dating a Trump supporter or a black guy. And now that privacy has moved public, the list of checkboxes lengthens as men try to gerrymander pussy (which again, always favors Chad) and Cosmopolitan feminists generate new metrics by which women can fall short.

These bureaucrats may have been hurt themselves, they may have the best of intentions. Perhaps that’s why their regulations are never phrased as hostile takeover. Instead, they take the form of advice, #lifehacks, and laugh-tracked satire at a third party’s expense. That’s how it always is, a friendly voice lends you a superego and all you have to do is pay interest on shame. The system wins when its values become your own.

However strong this force was historically, it’s stronger now that society consists of, let me check my phone, everyone. Just as metropolises are now made up of showrooms and gift shops, the demands of 7.442 billion potential tourists outweighing a pittance of locals, the citizens shape themselves into fungible, neon-dyed tchotchkes, while being tormented by the possibility that they have fallen short in this important moral task. The end-game of dating is the targeted ad. 

Before you start in on “swipe culture,” let’s be clear: no one has met cute through friends since the second war in Iraq, and Tinder, whatever faults it may have, at least requires the sacred fumbling of getting to know a stranger. OKCupid is a better example of modern anti-romance, with its careful sorting of partners by politics and caste, with its swamp of information bias that disguises—encourages—lying on the internet. But of course a Yelped bar or bookstore offers the same anonymity, the same curated selection who respond to the same empty lines until you start to hate them for it, like how dare you force me to lie, how dare you be so predictable, and this weakness makes them human which isn’t what you wanted anyway. No doubt they feel the same.

If this sounds bad, it gets worse: the above process is directly responsible for the most modern misandry and misogyny. Please note that the Women Are From Venus stereotypes have largely disappeared, even among misogynists. Please further note that #blackpilled misogynists rarely objectify women; in fact many of these men intentionally desexualize the “female race” and substitute, say, male crossdressers. The catcalling misogyny of the past came from a position of power: internet death threat misogyny comes from desperation. The twist is that the same transition has occurred among women—that despite every metric claiming that women are better off than before, women have moved from Men Are From Mars to a nagging suspicion that anything with a phallus should die.

Why would both sexes feel more powerless? Not discussed in polite society, but heavily discussed by misogynists, is the apparent epidemic of transactional sex: paypig/findommes, camgirls, sugar babies, and omnipresent Amazon wishlists. Sorta kitschy, free country, whatever. I’m sure part of this is mere technological transition, the gyration of the strip club from analog to digital, and Kanye informs me that there have always been implicit gold digging arrangements. But think about what happens when these private arrangements go public. First, some guy starts to associate “hot girl” with “:P spoil me”, and FYI, anger and lust, both performed with a closed fist, are exactly zero degrees apart on the axis of masturbation. And now that our guy has this (maybe unconscious) association, women have to rise to the occasion, e.g. make snotty demands for Venmo donations, because even though this makes him howl with rage, if it’s not there, he assumes the girl’s not that hot.

Everyone loses: women learn that they have to put on an act to get attention, except that half of men think they should die for this act and the other half—even the ones looking for a Serious Relationship—seem to lose interest if it’s ever turned off. Meanwhile the guy grows increasingly lonely/desperate/bitter as he tautologizes that every single girl he likes is an “attention whore." Our guy doesn’t know who he is or what he wants outside of anger and its aesthetics. Maybe he’d hit it off great with one of those women; maybe he should choose a different set of superficialities to pursue; maybe people lie on the internet; regardless, OKCupid gives them a compatibility of 43%.

And meanwhile women are wondering the same thing: how can you know?

There’s one more crucial scene In The Company of Men. Howard arrives at an airport and sees Christine working at a desk. He walks over to her and says, “Listen.” She doesn’t respond. So he says it again, “Listen,” and again, and again, screaming now and—

—but what could he say? Even if his intentions were pure to the utmost, what could he possibly say or do that wouldn’t be perceived as an act? What could any man do that wouldn’t be perceived in the same way? “I asked her what time it was. You know, Mountain, Central.” No wonder she hit you.

This is how society arrives at an absence of faith. It’s no coincidence that Chad executed his scheme as a tourist: that meant there were no witnesses to his character. It’s no coincidence that he picked a nervous brown-eyed waif—someone with too much self-doubt to trust her instincts, someone who draped herself in the trappings of goodness, someone too inexperienced to know that perfect is always a trap. But Christine was chosen because she was deaf. She couldn’t hear voices, she could only see the words. Now the words are gone. The question is what remains.

[corvussempervirens]

Chapter 16: 2009

“don’t worry, i’m with lynn and tricia. have a good night, i’ll see you tomorrow babe” I text him. God he’s fucking clingy. Who cares if he just graduated and I’m only about to be a junior? That doesn’t mean he’s it for me. I just turned sixteen, after all. And quite honestly, I’m already so fed up with what I’ve seen in this world so far. 

I have been cutting myself for the last couple of years, like a fucking idiot. Some weeks more than others, sometimes in obvious places because i’m sick and like to watch the way people react to the scars. They know exactly what those wounds mean, but most people just turn away. It’s pretty brutal, honestly, how we can all just go through this life acting like looking away makes terrible things disappear. Again - i’m fucking sick of it all.

That’s why I decided to go out with Lynn and Tricia tonight. They understand the rage against this bullshit system: after school activities, pep rallies, and standardized tests. They actually see the faults for what they are. Plus, they know how to have a good time. So that’s what we were on our way to do tonight - to have a damn good time. Tricia met some guy online and they had met up to smoke before, so we know it was going to chill. Nothing to worry about. 

Pot was never really a thing I saw myself doing, but now that sophomore year is over, I’m a full blown stoner. This summer, Lynn, Tricia, and I have spent a lot of time finding different places in the hills to smoke weed. Lynn has long beautiful blonde hair that straight up glows in the summer sun. She is pale white and sometimes, when I’m super baked, I imagine that I’m being driven around by an angel. Tricia has short brown hair and a body that she knows how to use. She is the one constantly pushing me over the edge. I’m awkward. Long hair, long legs, absolutely uncomfortable in my own skin. But they just brought me under their wing, a year older than me, and showed me the ropes toward becoming a different person, a new Lucy. 

When I met Tricia in class last year, I was tired of Sunday school, soccer practice, and pretending like this world isn’t a piece of shit. So we started hanging out, and I was glad to leave it all behind. All my friends judged the hell out of me last year, but it’s been months now and I don’t really care anymore. 

Tonight is the first time I am going out to a party that isn’t full of my boyfriends senior friends. Dan is great, and he treats me like a queen, but he thinks I walk on water. I’m not the person that he thinks I am. Parties are starting to get a little dull with him there; appearing suddenly when I’m dancing and other guys start to notice, or reminding me not to smoke too many cigarettes, and to drink water. it’s fucking obnoxious. He doesn’t understand the self hatred and anger that I’m harboring. He can’t see how I’m closer to losing it each day. 

Tonight is going to be different. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and I know that Lynn and Tricia won’t say shit to anyone because that’s just the kind of girls we are. 

Ultimately, I know exactly what I’m here for: to get fucked. Dan and I have been together for almost two years, and we’ve fooled around, but I haven’t had sex with him yet. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s too perfect for me and I’m worried he’ll get too attached. Either way, it was time for me to get laid. 

Before I know it, I’m being led into a mobile home by a few guys I don’t recognize. Doesn’t seem like a great party, but whatever. Inside, there’s barely any furniture and everything has a stench of smoke and dirt to it. I look around and notice a tall dark haired guy sulking in the corner of the kitchen. 

“’Sup, Paul!” some guy in a red t-shirt and Dickies says to the tall guy. 

“’Sup” he says back, taking cigarettes out of his pocket. Marlboro 27′s. Good taste. He scans past the Dickies guy and looks at Lynn and Tricia. Lynn nods her head and waves, playing it cool like always. Tricia walks up to Paul and hugs him, thanking him for letting us be there. I don’t say anything because most guys stop at Lynn and Tricia, and I usually find my way to the booze asap. 

One of the other guys, in a black v-neck and black pants, starts playing music. Sounds like some random hip hop artist I don’t recognize, but the buzz of the bass instantly makes things less awkward. He has semi-long hair that covers his forehead, a strong jawline, and you can tell he skateboards by his shoes. Must be Marvin, Tricia’s guy. Her type to the tee. 

As everyone starts to mingle, and other random people begin to trickle in, I hunt for the liquor. Soon, I notice that the alcohol is being served by Paul, so I walk to him, arm and cup extended. 

“Anything for the poor?” I ask him with a smile, shaking my cup at him. Fuck it, he is cute after all. Green eyes. Yum.  

He smirks. “I might have something for you somewhere.” He reaches for the tequila and begins to make me a drink. I notice his broad shoulders, and the fact that he’s actually a lot taller than I realized earlier. 

I’m wearing short khaki shorts (like literally half my ass hanging out) and a black crop top so my belly and breasts are showing as well. Normally, I would never wear anything this revealing, but Tricia said that I’ve spent most of my life being a soccer player, and that I need to start taking advantage of the body it’s given me. I can tell that Paul would agree with her by the way he is looking at me.

He hands me the drink, and I reach for it. He pulls away, “Ah, not so simple, beggar.” He flashes a big smile. Okay, that’s it. “Maybe a simple round of truth or dare to receive your drink?”. He looks me dead in the eyes, mischievous as hell. Fuck it. 

“Okay, fine.” I say. “But, you’re completely wrong if you think I’m going to tell you anything about myself. So dare. Obviously.”

He looks ecstatic, like he was hoping I would say that. “Excellent. I dare you to take this molly with me.” He opens his palm and shows me two white pills. He wiggles his fingers a little when I don’t respond right away. “So?” he asks. “What do you think?”

I’ve never done molly, but I’ve seen my friends do it several times. I’m not sure why, but before I know it, I’m reaching for the pill. I look up at him. “Well, I’m going to need my drink in order to take this down”, I say to him. He smiles and hands me my drink. He picks his cup up, and we cheer. 

Ecstasy was definitely not on my to do list for the night, but I take it and begin to drink a few mixed drinks with Paul. Soon, Lynn is there, also getting a drink and I tell her we had taken a molly. Paul immediately brandishes a new one and offers it to Lynn, palm outstretched. 

She takes it without a drop of hesitation, and then begins to take shots. “Fuck yeah!” she yells, beginning to dance, running her fingers through her blonde hair. 

She’s always surprising me, because most of the time she’s sort of quiet, but then when you get to know her, she’s a fucking tornado. We have a lot in common that way. 

I look over at Paul, beginning to feel the liquor really set in. I also start dancing, occasionally looking at him and biting my lip. Moving ever so slowly, closer to him. He just bobs his head and watches me, sipping his drink. Pretty soon, I’m about a foot away from him, dancing but not touching him. I act like I am going to lean into him, but instead I reach around him, and grab the Jose Cuervo. Sometimes, I can be good at this. 

The glass bottle gleams in the air as I drink straight from it. This time, when I try to return the bottle smoothly around him, Paul grabs my hips and pulls me up against the counter. Pressing his body against mine, swaying his hips to the music. God this feels good. Nothing has ever actually felt this good before. Is this the molly? We stay like that for awhile, just running our hands on each other’s bodies. 

Soon, I’m leading Paul down the hall to an empty room. Lynn happens to notice, and follows us inside. I push Paul onto the bed and straddle him, feeling his body under mine. I  continue to grind my hips against his body, in time to the music. I don’t think he minds. Soon, Lynn is kneeling next me and starts pulling me away from him... okay? “What are you doing Lynn? We’re busy”. 

She grabs my waist and pulls me close. “I just want to make sure you have the best time possible.” She whispers into my ear. “You need to kiss him like you fucking mean it. Like this,” with one arm pulling my ass into her body, and another one grabbing my neck, she forcefully kisses me. And, she like, fully devours me. I feel her tongue in my mouth, her hand squeezing my ass, and her fingers tighten around my throat all at the same time. 

Holy shit, Lynn. I have never been kissed like this. I feel electrocuted, and instantly I feel my pussy get wet. Is this the molly? She lets go, and grins at me. 

“See what I mean? Make him lose his fucking mind, Lucy. Nothing matters anyway.” She gets up and walks out of the room, yelling when she gets to the hallway: “Shots bitches!!!”. People cheer in response. 

I turn to look at Paul. I could feel every part of me vibrating. His cock pulsing under me, his hands running over my breasts, pulling my nipples. I could see his hunger for me. 

Holy shit, Lynn was right. This feeling is all that matters. Fuck Dan, fuck school, fuck church, and apparently, fuck being straight. Who cares who I fuck, what I smoke, what drugs I do? 

This feeling is fucking amazing. 

[lokgifsandmusings]

Definitive Ranking of Book 1 Episodes, #11/12

11. 1x05 “The Spirit of Competition”

So much probending. So much love quadrilateral.

Need I say more?

I’m back in a totally timely fashion (*coughs*) with the next definitive ranking of Book 1.

Now, I started out this list by explaining my frustration with “Endgame,” and how the biggest issues of the first season are that aside from setting up something ~cool~, there was really no follow-through from the perspective of the plot, or Korra’s development. Bryke seemed wholly unaware of what they were trying to say, and ended up with a season that stood for nothing.

With that in mind, it would seem logical that episodes such as “Turning the Tide” or “Skeletons in the Closet,” where the main plotline quite obviously began to lose its way, would be right at the bottom the list next to “Endgame.” But “Spirit of Competition” is just a special mid-season clunker. The Equalist plotline doesn’t even exist here, and it’s also probably solely responsible for every single complaint about probending since we get THREE matches, none of which are particularly meaningful.

Oh hey, Bolin feels good about himself, so he does well!

The focus is, instead, on the love quadrilateral. Sure, one of the points of this polygon is more or less missing the whole episode, but Asami’s viewpoint being dismissed as a mild inconvenience is kind of the theme of the season.

Look, I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I found Makorra wholly uncompelling from the start. In “The Revelation” I guess I saw some potential because they actually like, interacted and their differing backgrounds came up? Sort of? But the biggest reason why their scripting left me drier than a desert was that it never seemed much deeper than “you’re hot and I want on you,” largely because of episodes like this where their interactions focused on ~~feelings~~ without Bryke realizing they never established them.

And it’s not like I think giving Korra a romantic subplot was necessarily a bad idea. Girl grew up completely isolated, and there’s actually a lot to be explored as to how that might manifest with her navigating the social space for the first time, particularly with  people her own age. I just don’t really see why this is how they went about scripting it. I mean, this episode was coming hot on the heels of “The Voice in the Night,” which not only moved the plot pretty significantly, but it put Korra’s bravado and insecurities front and center. Her interaction with Amon made the stakes feel more personal, especially the way he was so clearly toying with her, and how he promised that her time would come eventually. She finally allowed herself the space to feel scared.

So why not follow it up with...a team huddle of sexual tension? 23 solid minutes of Korra trying to figure out what to do about the boy she liked? You could pretend this was her compartmentalizing and purposely not dealing with things, except that’s not really in evidence at all. Like, I don’t even think Amon is referenced. It’s okay; it’s not like he JUST HAD HER CHAINED UP.

Instead, what’s *really* important is the probending. Clearly. Now, Griffin has tried to defend probending to me a number of times. And I grudgingly understand it as a framing device for Korra’s airbending progress in Episode 2 (as heavy-handed as that was), as well as showing her learning to work with others. You can argue that’s exactly what this episode did, but really, I just don’t see the *entire* episode devoted to it as being justified.

Not to mention, this was more just showing us that pissing people off doesn’t make for the group dynamics, which...yeah? We didn’t need Korra and Mako not communicating in a probending match to understand that Korra and Mako were having trouble communicating.

Oh Jonny...

It was all very basic cause-and-effect, and combined it just seemed as though Bryke had time they wanted to burn. Except then “Endgame” was rushed and sloppy, so that’s a hard case to make. Still, recapping:

They play well in their first match

Korra asks out Mako and it’s awkward, so she goes on a date with Bolin

Mako yells at Korra for going on a date with Bolin

Mako and Korra play poorly in their second match, but Bolin wins it for them

Korra kisses Mako and Bolin sees

Everyone plays horribly for the third match, but then Korra wins it for them

I think every time we found ourselves back in the stadium, I let out a groan. But what’s even the takeaway from this? Why does Korra magically pull her head out of it? Did she have a mid-match epiphany about the value of platonic friendship that we weren’t privy to?

Mako and Bolin agree to not let girls get in between them, which is a nice brotherly moment, though I would have liked Bolin to point out that Mako should kind of shit or get off the pot here. And still the whole thing is undercut by the fact that feelings weren’t really developed between any points of this quadrilateral.

Perhaps ironically, Asami and Mako had the most depth to them of any pairing at that point, with their bonding over shared trauma.

Man, she really fed his ego...

I can’t track this for Korra’s development at all. She took the world’s worst advice from the world’s most problematic relationship coach in the form of Pema. But there’s actually something wildly endearing about how she asked Ikki and Jinora for advice in the first place, since it highlights just how much of a fish-out-of-water she is here. Of course the 11 and 8-year-olds would know this stuff! I also happen to love how blunt Pema is and could gush about the sordid Pelinzin dynamics for some time. Slay the “other woman” trope, girl! I honestly think her POV would be super compelling around the time this all went down, and one day I’ll get to writing it. One day...

What was I saying? Right, Korra’s romantic development in this episode. I just don’t even know. The way she asks him out is cringe-worthy, but supposed to be. Then she goes on a date with Bolin because she was sad about being rejected and for some reason didn’t say “sounds good, let’s go as friends.” Then when Mako calls her out for toying with Bolin (kinda? They did just get noodles), she has the nerve to say it’s so clearly his jealousy. Then they play a shitty match and Mako tells Korra he does like her, so she kisses him (honestly, reasonable). Then she’s in such a pissy mood about Mako probably yelling at her for that, that her next match she literally waterbends at the ref? But then is the person who wins the whole thing? And somewhere in that time realized she should be super thankful that Asami secured them a tournament spot in the first place?

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock

Look, navigating the world of teenage hormones is tricky, and I guess there’s something realistically dramatic and infantile about it all. But this is a scripted show, and I honestly have no idea why Bryke would think this is the compelling way to write a romance. If the idea was to force Mako into admitting he liked her, and using Bolin as that wedge, then why was Asami also necessary as a love triangle device? Couldn’t just one love triangle had sufficed? I’m also struggling to see the point of the repeated conversations between Mako and Korra, or how probending became the visual metaphor to hammer home how they’re not getting along. WE GET IT. I PROMISE.

Truly, I think the main issue is that this nonsense was all condensed into one episode. In isolation, each individual beat is fine, especially as a learning moment for Korra. I actually really liked the Borra date, not in a shipping way, but as what it was: Korra had a very good time with someone she only had a platonic attraction to, and Bolin put romantic weight onto it (for perfectly valid reasons). Then he found out in a harsh way that Korra wasn’t interested, but she apologized to him and he moved on more or less instantaneously. Their dynamic is still based on affection, and I like that the show recognized that sort of romantic incompatibility and unrequited feelings (it happens) without giving Bolin a whiff of entitlement about the whole thing.

two episodes later

I know I said I was struggling to see Korra’s growth in Season 1, which is still a complaint that’s there. But I can at least say that Korra learning to consider others was something that happened. Not as in like, “that uppity girl needs to learn empathy!” or any bullshit like that. But in the sense of, she was raised in an isolated compound and had attention on her 24/7. Everything she did was about her growth and development as the Avatar. Then she ran to the city, and quickly learned that hey, you can’t just beat people up even if it’s “justice” in your mind. You can’t just agree to dates with people you don’t want to date and not expect some hurt feelings. And you can’t just be antagonistic to your crush’s girlfriend, because she’s like...a human. I mean, you can, but Korra is a rather nice person, and didn’t want to do that after 1x07.

In some ways it’s a touch on the uncomfortable side of things, because we’re talking about a specifically brown female protagonist learning to more or less restrain herself? But it really is just about her navigating the overwhelming social space for the first time, and there’s something to be said about that as well. Aang was a fish-out-of-water in the sense that he was missed the events of the world for 100 years. Korra was a fish-out-of-water because she hadn’t gotten to experience the world at all. It’s kind of just a different way of giving us that, to a different level of success.

Like all the classics

However, I do feel like her isolation wasn’t deeply explored? Like we watched her mature and we saw her viewpoints evolve, but no one ever really talked about it, in the same way Mako and Bolin being orphans was rarely discussed too. It’s ~there~, but I do think given some of the less wonderful implications, a bit more explication would have helped.

Also, we didn’t see Korra like, having to learn greetings and slang or anything. You know, things you’d expect if this is the kind of story you’re digging into. Instead, we got Korra learning how to navigate specifically romances. Then there was her more general worldview and how she saw her fit as the Avatar, which as I said, was something heavily unresolved in Season 1 (and that’s fine). But it makes the hammering of romance all the more just...why.

I know some people watch shows for ships, but I’m not one of them (which is why I love this piece by Gretchen), and I also happen to think that [relation]ships are the most compelling when they’re not relegated to this sort of separate sphere. Book 1 was written kind of like, “oh now we’re doing the shipping episode!”

But instead of Mako and Korra yelling about the concept of dating each other, maybe we could have had them interacting so we’d have an understanding of why they wanted that. And if they were only meant to be attracted and wow, it didn’t work out ‘cause we’re incompatible (you know...what actually happened), then why focus on it like this and build it up all season as some kind of ~~true love~~?

I guess what it took me 2000 fucking words to arrive at is that “Spirit of Competition” was telling-and-not-showing storytelling for the romance itself (which sadly is "in" these days), and given that it was the only focus of the episode, it’s just not very good—not as an artform, not as a way of getting audience engagement, and not as anything that served the larger Book 1 picture.

Honestly, what follows makes me wistful for this

But at least it didn’t collapse under itself like the damn dying star that was “Endgame.”

Before I get out of here I’d like to nitpick for a second about the probending. IF YOU ATTACK THE REF, YOU SHOULD BE OUT OF THE TOURNAMENT! God, what the fuck. She didn’t even get a red card for that...just a yellow. Really violated the suspension of disbelief. Also, the random Tahno rivalry that they realized they had to build up for the next episode was so badly done. “Here’s this jerk! Hate him now!” I guess it kind of works to make Amon’s point, but the fact that we only get him in 1x05 and it’s resolved by 1x06 is very odd.

I suppose “Spirit of Competition” has merits in terms of ironic enjoyment, and there is some downright fun silliness (“you’re a bad idea!” and my favorite, “you look great, champ!”). But in that department, I’ll take “The Sting” any day.

Next time, I’ll rip into what is probably a perfectly fine episode, other than it just didn’t do it for me.

#12 1x12 “Endgame”

1x05 photo recap found here

Book 2 ranking/essays found here

Book 4 ranking/essays found here