#and how that's impossible for me because usually local food costs so much more

[aristocrowcy]

I've never had a great relationship with food, it took me a good long time to repair it

And lately, I'm really thinking about how much I was told that I shouldn't eat frozen food, that it's bad for me, that it's lazy etc etc

And now, at the ripe old age of 27, now that I'm broke and really have to pay attention to every euro I spend, I'm beginning to realize that it was probably just a lot of classism

Like, we all need to eat, and we need to eat well, we need to make sure that we eat the proper nutrients to keep our bodies and minds as healthy as possible

So why should I spend 8€ on a single "fresh" salmon fillet (as fresh as it can be in a grocery store) when I could buy a kilo of white fish for that exact same price or less

Like, what's so wrong about frozen food, really

It just sounds like classism to me now

[ayliamc]

Italia

Day 5 - The Smell of the Ocean

Steps walked: 16,283

Flights climbed: 13

Vehicles ridden: 3 (two by land, one by water)

Points of interest visited: 3

Leonardos spotted: only bastardizations in tourist swag

We took our time having breakfast and checking out of the hotel, opting for comfort and taking a taxi to the train station rather than the metro. We got to marvel at the skill and audacity of Italian drivers as he cut through solid walls of traffic to get us to the station with plenty of time to spare. We strolled directly onto the train for the nearly three hour ride to Venezia. ‘Twas a relatively uneventful train ride, mostly pleasant, aside from the little boy who sat next to me for 30% of the ride who watched stuff on his phone with the volume on.

We arrived in Venezia, a sinking city, hungry. We tried two cafes at the train station who reportedly sometimes had vegan croissants but no such luck. Dan was noticeably worried because as my hunger grows, my moods become more mercurial. I insisted I’d be ok and that we could head to our hotel and maybe we’ll find something on the way. I was determined not to be the problem, as I usually am.

It was a half hour walk through Venezia to our hotel and along the way we passed a Chinese restaurant listed on Happy Cow (our vegan restaurant finder app, a necessity for every traveling vegan). I was not about to resist another break from Italian food so we had a very satisfying lunch there and I have no regrets about our first stop in Venezia being to a Chinese restaurant.

The rest of our walk to the hotel was uneventful, providing us a nice walking tour of the city, encumbered only by our luggage.

Some observations/thoughts about Venezia:

* For all intents and purposes, there are no roads. No cars. No vehicles. We walked exclusively through alleys, for lack of a better word. Ranging from wide to impossibly narrow, weaving with no apparent rhyme or reason thru the multi-story ancient buildings housing apartments, hotels, restaurants, and shops. Modern kitsch sold from crumbling brick store fronts and tourist traps next to local markets.

* How could anyone live here? It’s just fine to visit. Kind of surreal to experience. But people live their lives in this city where Amazon deliveries are brought by rolly cart and courier and emergency services take a boat to the nearest canal. Their day-to-day is spent navigating through a sea of tourists who seemingly outnumber them.

* It feels less like a real place where people live as it does a run down amusement park where there’s only one ride: a 30 minute gondola ride that costs €80. It’s all in need of a good scrubbing to get rid of that algae/fish/sea salt smell.

* You pay for water at restaurants here. They don’t do tap water.

Our hotel was directly next to a canal and gondola “start point”, of which there are many. The gentleman who ran the hotel greeted us at the door and was outrageously friendly and nice and Italian. “Buongiorno! Ciao! Welcome! You have-a my favorite room-a!”

‘Twas indeed a very nice room with windows that overlooked a canal. We unloaded our bags and went for a walk to the Piazza San Marco and the Doge’s Palace and meandered around, taking in the sights and sounds. Without having much interest in actually paying for admission to any of the museums or historic landmarks, there wasn’t a whole lot for us to do.

And here we are sighing at the bridge of sighs.

We eventually found ourselves in a gondola not far from our hotel (but not the one right next to the hotel entrance). I’d noticed that all the gondoliers were male and I did a bit of googling to confirm that in Venezia’s history, only one “female” gondolier has ever existed, and even then not really. Alex Hai became the “first female gondolier” a few years before he came out as trans. As far as I can tell, he still works as an occasional gondolier but by appointment only. He also works as a filmmaker. So we couldn’t support any women or trans-men, and were left with a traditional gondolier. He was still great and pointed out a few things on our half hour tour. My initial thought that 30 minutes was too short a ride was replaced after about 20 minutes when I decided “yeah, 30 minutes is plenty.”

Many of the gondoliers chat with each other as they pass, their long oars on the right of the boat while they use their left leg to kick off the building walls on either end of the narrow canals. It seems like an exhausting job. I don’t know how they do it. But it’s fun to watch.

We had some time to kill before our reservations. (Too late we discovered there’s exactly one vegan restaurant in all of Venezia and it was far and required reservations which we had not made. An email revealed to us that they were fully booked for the night. Our next best option was a very expensive restaurant that had a vegan menu.) We wandered aimlessly through our little corner of the city while I marveled at some of my aforementioned observations and went to our reservations a half hour early. They seated us immediately on their patio* and we immediately became aware that we were much too poor for this restaurant. We ordered two dishes each, aware that one dish would not be enough food despite the cost. Anyway it was all good. Not as good as the best meal I’ve had, and not good enough to justify the cost. But quite tasty. We had a nice leisurely dinner, hampered only by the French woman sitting next to us who lit up a cigarette right after we had our appetizers. Europeans, amiright?

I’ve also been starting to respond to every dog sighting with an ever increasing yearning for our babies back home. The best part of a vacation is knowing you’ll be ready to finish it at the end. We’re about halfway there, and that feels right.

Our hotel had given us a complimentary bottle of wine which was a sweet, mild Chardonnay which we happily enjoyed before bed, falling asleep to the sounds of splashing water and boats passing by in the canal below our window.

*the alley behind the restaurant

[gatheringbones]

["At the end of August in 1981, I found myself in a small town in Arkansas, where I knew no Lesbians other than my new lover, Lynn. I wanted it that way. We were living in hiding from my armed and vengeful ex-lover who had abused me for four years and had threatened both of us with deadly harm. This was five years before the publication of Kerry Lobel's ground-breaking book, Naming the Violence: Speaking Out About Lesbian Battering. I knew I had been battered, but I did not understand how deeply I had been injured.

I only knew that I seemed to have saved my life at the cost of my sanity. I jumped at loud and not-so-loud noises. A frown from a stranger could reduce me to tears. I was afraid to bathe if I was alone in the apartment. I relived every word of every fight in relentless flashbacks. I had blocked much of the unbearable pain of the previous four years out of my consciousness at the time, in order to cope with immediate danger. Now that I was "safe" it all came flooding back. To escape, I watched TV compulsively, avoiding anything violent—nature shows were my favorites—and I read science fiction. Having lost faith in women as well as men, I was a serious candidate for a species-change operation.

Luckily, at some point in that bleak winter, I read a magazine article on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in Vietnam Vets, and I recognized all my symptoms. I had a name for my suffering, and 1 knew I was not "crazy." I'd felt so much guilt and anger towards myself for not being okay, that is, my old self, since I was "free." Now I knew healing would take time and effort, and I gave myself permission to not be normal right away. Also, seeing how much my condition resembled that of war survivors helped break down some of my denial about the hell I'd been through.

Still, I had no guidance on how to recover from PTSD. I followed only the dimmest instincts. First, I began to read accounts by survivors of any serious trauma. These people became my invisible support group. I found myself drawn especially to stories of political prisoners and concentration camp survivors. Although my experience was not like theirs, these were the people I felt would understand how my will had been sapped and my strengths twisted, how the smallest acts of resistance and mere endurance had needed all my wits and courage. Bruno Bettleheim in his chapters called "Behavior in Extreme Situations" (The Informed Heart) finally answered the question I'd put to myself every 44 hour since my escape: "How could I have been so stupid?" He made me realize that under abuse, especially the combination of intermittent threats, unpredictable violence and constant psychological torture, everyone responds differently, but everyone changes fundamentally, and everyone has their breaking point.

One day as I sat reading at the kitchen table, I looked out the window at the small yard beside our duplex apartment, and I began to imagine growing a garden there in the spring. It seemed like a highly improbable idea: the area was very small, steep, bare of everything but gray shale and orange clay, and the house shaded it part of the day. But the notion of a garden took root strongly. For the first time in several years I had something pleasant to anticipate.

I wrangled my landlady's permission to put in a garden. Then I mailed off postcards for seed catalogs. I persuaded an acquaintance who owned a truck to bring me a load of cedar slabs discarded by a local sawmill, and I used these to construct two frames, about four feet by six feet, and two even smaller ones, just three feet by four feet. By this time Lynn and I had saved enough money to buy a very old VW bug, so we drove to a nearby creekbank and filled bushel baskets with rich bottom dirt, which we dumped into the frames to make raised beds about four inches deep.

To supplement the tiny growing space, Lynn scavenged large cans from the cafeteria of the hospital where she worked. I painted them a hopeful green, filled them with soil and placed them along the sidewalk below our porch. Old-timey "Corn-row Beans," originally bred to tolerate the shade of cornfields, grew up strings tied to the roof and bore prolifically.

I didn't have much money from my SSI income to spend on garden gadgets, so I made do. I wove a trellis for my peas from six-pack rings liberated from a liquor store trash bin. (I can testify that this plastic never biodegrades—the pea fence survives to this day.) I got some more bushel baskets from the local grocery, painted them with non-toxic preservative and lined them with garbage bags after snipping a few drainage holes in the bottom. Placed around a small stone patio above the garden, these became containers for large plants.

The garden rewarded me before the first mouthful of early spinach was harvested. It moved me out of the gloomy apartment and into the sunshine, watering can in hand. It motivated me to interact with people and to occasionally risk asking for help. I found out they would usually say yes. My attention was now focused on the future, not the bitter, unchangeable past. At night when the flashbacks threatened to roll, when I dreaded the dreams I might have, I put myself to sleep with 45 detailed plans of my next crop rotation. I found out I could learn a major new skill, a little at a time. I could do things right, even come up with ingenious solutions to seemingly impossible difficulties. And when I did things wrong, plants were most often forgiving. The plants themselves were a tremendous source of inspiration. Talk about survivors! They defied every book written about their needs, often thriving with too little sun, too little water, and too little soil. At the end of a year, I could easily stick my shovel in the dirt up to the hilt, where only four inches of top soil had previously existed; compost and the action of the roots had created friable loam out of shale and clay.

When I experienced failure with gardening, it was never the kind of disaster I'd grown to associate with mistakes. We didn't go hungry, because other crops outstripped our expectations. My lover didn't beat or berate me, but sympathized and helped. The garden was important to us economically, because we'd both lost almost everything we owned in our escape. Luckily, in southern Arkansas, it's possible to garden yearround. The garden gave me precious, desperately needed tastes of success. Disabled, unemployed, I still felt like an important contributor to the household. I even had food to give away sometimes, and that was a delicious feeling.

Gardening was not the only factor in my recovery, but it was an important one. I didn't grow up with abuse, but battering and similar traumas can expand minutes into hours, years into decades, until four years feel like most of a lifetime. At the end of a year and a half of gardening, I no longer felt as if I'd spent the majority of my life in a battering situation. Healing had acquired a new definition for me: I didn't insist on having the old me back; I'd mourned her long and well. I accepted the fact that some injuries are too severe to be made whole, that I might never be the same again. But I began to actually like and trust the me I am now, scars and all. As my garden taught me, I must make do with what I am. I have discovered that my flaws are not fatal and my successes are greater than I'd hoped for. So far I have not gone hungry, and I even have something to offer."]

Amy Edgington, Gaining Ground, from Garden Variety Dykes: Lesbian Traditions In Gardening, Herbooks, 1994

[blzzrdstryr]

Like a fairy tale

Yandere!Diluc x maid!fem!reader

Wordcount: 1921

CW: Yandere and slightly suggestive themes.

You loved reading fairy tales as a child - they were magical and hopeful, a needed retreat for a child of destitute parents. They were a promise that if you were good and kind and beautiful enough, eventually some faraway prince would come by and save you from poverty. And you tried to be good - you were obedient and hardworking and you pushed your hardest in the local school, yet hardship and scarcity still trailed your every step - the meager earnings your parents made weren't enough to buy you nice clothes or let you eat until you were sated, which in turn made social interactions harder: some kids sneered and humiliated you, some tried to help you out of pity. You disliked both groups: whether they were friendly or aggressive towards you, they still looked down on you.

Thus you decided to distance yourself from your peers - there was no knight in shining armour galloping towards you on a snow white steed, yet a good education could be your golden ticket to a better rich life. It was hard at first - to work and to study and to help your parents all while ignoring the demeaning and insulting comments the bullies made, but you gritted your teeth and pushed forward, imagining how wealthy you’ll become in the future and in the end our efforts were rewarded - you graduated as the best student, that led you to receiving a scholarship from Sumeru academy. Sparks and shine appeared in your eyes as you read the letter, barely stopping yourself from outright squealing and jumping from joy.

The moment of happiness didn’t last long though, as a reality again reminded you that there’s no place for fairy tales in the real world - scholarship covered the full cost of apprenticeship, but only it - you still had to spend money on the journey from Mondstadt to Sumeru, a place to rent and food, and if you still could find a job after your arrival in the foreign country and pay off the later two, trip required mora that you never had. At first you had a mad idea to traverse Teyvat on your own two feet - it would be a slow and arduous process, but cheap nonetheless. You later gave up on this plan - archons didn’t give you any vision, nor did you have fighting and travelling experience to aid you on the trail that no doubt would be full of slimes, hilichurls and other dangerous monsters.

And that’s how you started job hunting - you took on any work that promised you a hefty pay, be it some boring reports for guild of adventurers or an exciting yet risky endeavor of getting information for an extravagant cavalry captain, which then led you to Dawn Winery. Head housemaid, Adelinde, posted a job opening for a maid, and the prospect of a stable salary, free food and comfortable bed was enough to lure you in there - two or three years ago the previous owner of the winery died in the accident and his successor left Mond for some reason, leaving the maintenance and management of the winery on the shoulders of the said housemaid.

After a quick interview, the head maid demanded you to show her your cleaning skills, which you effortlessly did, having to look after the house by yourself all your childhood. It seems she was satisfied, as she nodded to you and asked to follow her as she led you to your room. Compared to the other two maids here, Hillie and Moco, who preferred to spend their work time in idle chat, you came off as highly professional and diligent worker. This contrast raised both your position and salary in the winery, as Adelinde started to entrust you with tasks more interesting than simple sweeping and cleaning.

You were outside the winery the day you met Diluc - returning from the city and carrying several stacks of milk and wheat you got chased by the hilichurls. Monsters didn’t leave you, no matter how long and how far you ran. You were ready to drop all the goods and have Adelinde to scold you for wastefulness and dereliction when Ragnvindr appeared and stole a breath from you. He looked just like the prince from your childhood tales, impossibly pretty and strong, arriving just when the creatures caught up with you and then defeating all of them with a single slash of great claymore. And just like a fairytale prince he helped you to get up and collect the scattered baggage and asked if you were okay. Then you two headed for the winery, you didn't know that he was it's owner at the time, chatting and thanking him, as he carried purchases. Adelinde almost fainted when she saw the return of the prodigal master in your company. After hastily taking goods from his hands, she made you apologize for rudeness and insubordination, but Diluc interrupted you saying it was fine.

Ragnvindr heir returned back to the winery and life went on its own, except the unreadable glares Diluc started to send you when you both were in the same room. It started off small: the quick glances that soon grew into intense staring. With his impassive stone face it was impossible to tell why he was glaring at you so much, so you acted as polite and professional as you could in his vicinity - after all you didn’t want to get fired and look for a new job. The key to this riddle presented itself during one day.

It was a bleak windy morning when Adelinde sent you to the city again, and as you walked the sky darkened and rain started. You returned absolutely soaked and shivering, teeth chattering and limbs slightly numb from cold and when Diluc saw you he ordered you to change in a low commanding voice. Frightened by the possible dismissal, you hurried putting on the uniform. Because of the haste you pulled it too tightly, hiking up a maid dress a little. It wasn’t up enough to reveal your hips or thighs, showing just a portion of knees that was usually hidden by the wide skirt.

Diluc’s eyes were glued on the uncovered joints, a subtle blush appearing on his pale cheeks. You continued to work, feeling how he consumed your legs with his eyes alone. He is lusting after me. You didn't know what to do with that revelation back then, embarrassed and slightly scared of attracting master Diluc's attention.

Nonetheless, an answer quickly came on the next day as you found a bonus to your salary, so big that it could be considered a payment for the next month. Diluc, despite his usually impassive face, seemed to be ashamed of the thoughts he had yesterday, with the body language telling you of his true feelings.

A plan came to mind. You hated yourself for it at first - it was low and disgraceful, you felt like a stereotypical manipulative gold digger, yet still decided to realize it in life - you needed mora, as fast and as much as possible. Over the time you spent working at the Dawn winery you noticed that Diluc, despite his obviously high intelligence, wasn't really good at judging one’s character, so he fell for your scheme pretty easily. Design you had in mind was pretty simple - to stir him up with small, innocuous gestures and changes that would slip past the outsider’s eyes.

Sometimes you applied a thin layer of healing lip balm on your lips, that so conveniently happened shine and glitter under the light, sometimes you donned your dress a little bit higher, opening the view of two delicate knees and sometimes after cleaning and working all day you felt so hot that you had to unfasten one or two buttons to cool off. Diluc, despite not showing it on his face, was obviously distracted and aroused, hands clenched into fists and a shaky, barely controlled exhale escaping his nose.

He started to pile you with bonuses and prizes; “for a well done job”, he said one time, averting his gaze and masking the shame in his voice under a huff. He also started to request you to specifically clean the rooms he occupied, his eyes sizing up almost every inch of your body. You felt how the lust and desire radiated off him, how his hands itched to trace your skin and have you at his mercy, yet he stopped every time with his steel strong control and self-discipline. You sensed how it dwindled little by little.

Diluc, in some perverted sense, was that fair prince of your childhood daydreams that would save you from poverty.

You almost had saved up the needed amount of money when you noticed the loss of your most cherished possession - an invitation to the Sumeru academy and scholarship certificate. With heart booming in your chest you started to look for it in the whole winery, without giving out that you were searching for something. It seems that you were unsuccessful in your attempts, as master of the winery soon called you into the office.

Here, he was sitting behind the desk with a familiar paper in his hand - your eyes widened as you saw it and you had an urge to run up to him and snatch the invitation from him. You performed a curtsy instead, closing the door behind you and waiting for him to speak, eyes still on the sheet in Diluc’s hold.

“[First], you are a diligent and skillful employee, Adelinde has a very high opinion of you” he started from afar, a slight rosy blush dusting his cheeks at "skillful employee".

"So as your employer I wouldn't want any harm to befall on your person, and" he shaked the invitation a couple of times, "it came to my attention that you were planning on travelling to Sumeru. I advise you against this nonsensical idea".

You gritted teeth, careful not to insult him with the couple of barbed words at the tip of your tongue. Nonsensical idea? This was your goal, a main reason why you worked so much and allowed yourself so little.

“I am sorry, master Diluc, I am afraid I can’t abandon this idea”, you say, response flat and controlled, a thunderstorm of emotions hidden beneath the faux calm, “It is my goal, and the main reason why I work here”. So I can have a bright and secure future, in which I won’t have to worry about the tomorrow ever again.

“I also learned that you were born into a low income family and you had to struggle in your life because of that ” a sudden mention of your less than glorious origin makes your face burn from the shame you thought you buried a long time ago. You are stunned, so he continues: “I believe this little endeavor of yours is also motivated by your desire for a stable future. Drop it, I travelled all across the Teyvat and there are horrors that can easily destroy you both in body and spirit”.

He stands up from the desk, and gets closer to you: “I can look after and provide for you, just stay there and you won’t have to worry about the future again ”. His hold on the paper gets tighter, pyro vision shining with a dangerous glint. A faint smell of smoke spreads through the room - a warning if you remain stubborn and unyielding.

Who could have known that the fair prince was a greedy dragon all along?

[sapper-in-the-wire-old]

Stefania Ferrario’s schtick of veganism is more annoying than usual because she lives in fuckin Australia, where a sustainable vegan diet is just straight up impossible. You either have to burn metric tons of fossil fuels to ship refrigerated greens from overseas, or pillage the land’s water for massively inefficient farming on Australia itself. The actual Australian diet that’s sustainable is the aborigine diet, which, surprise surprise, eats a lot of meat.

There’s a real colonizing factor here that reminds me Israelis planting european trees in Palestine.

An actual sustainable world is going to have foods limited by location. Bananas costing 4 cents year round is maintained with blood and oil. The fact that the pandemic saw no drop in emissions just goes to show how much of a factor international food transport is in global emissions.

And this loops back around to the fact that if you aren’t okay with eating only local foods and living without air conditioning, you really shouldn’t be living where you are. So that’s like, all the whites in Australia lmao.

[ladylynse]

So I just finished marathoning BBC Merlin recently and I'm craaaving a DP crossover. I think I saw you mention you had the idea for one before? Maybe??? Or maybe it was a 3 sentence prompt? Either way, if you had an idea for one I'd love to hear you talk more about it? If not, I'd love to hear a musing :D You have the best ideas. Thanks in advance, have a nice day/night!

You're thinking of this post. *grins* I try to collect that kind of thing on this post, but sometimes I forget to link it, so even if you vaguely remember seeing something, there's no guarantee it's on there when it should be. I haven't done a three sentence fic with that crossover, so feel free to drop me a prompt or two if you want one.

There are fic possibilities beyond what I talked about in the first post, of course, even without setting it in the present where Merlin hears what's going on in North America, specifically Amity Park, so here's another one. (I'm coming up with it on the fly, so apologies if there's more inconsistencies than usual.)

Given the time period, a fic could be set at a time when Dora and Aragon are alive. And cursed. Dealing with that whole backstory. If I were bringing more DP characters into the story like that, I'd be tempted to set the story after the Merlin series ended, when Merlin can be off avoiding thinking about what happened and run right into trouble that a dragonlord is uniquely suited to deal with.

Failing that, I'd set it in my comfy S4-S5 spot, where they're out following up on rumours of Morgana and magical activity (Arthur would believe they were linked even if they weren't) that Arthur shouldn't be tracking for safety reasons but he is because he's Arthur, and Merlin isn't as keen to laugh off the stories Gwaine brings back from the local pub about sorcery that can transform people into dragons. Transformation magic is hard, and something that skitters along the lines of the ancient magic of dragons is nearly impossible to mimic. The fact that something is out there that can supposedly do that is worrisome, and he needs to find a way to break off from the group and check it out.

You could technically do that story without any time travel whatsoever, but I like time travel, so chances are good I'd include it and therefore include Danny.

As such, that could work with the Ghost King AU, too, with Danny getting some *ahem* unconventional training off the books that he in absolutely no way signed up for. (I mean, hey, if it were a Ghost King AU, why not go all the way and throw Pariah Dark in there, too? Danny's back here for a history lesson. (Please let this be a normal history lesson. With Clockwork? No way!) History and politicking. And just being on his toes, more so than he already is. He is not as careful in Amity Park as he should be, getting lax about his secret because the general populace seems so oblivious.)

And if Danny were thrown into the past with next to no context? With how careless he is? Even when he's being careful, chances are good someone would catch him at something and he'd be called out for having magic. There's not much people hunting down sorcerers can do when it comes to capturing and keeping him, not without some magic of their own, but Danny would not be able to blend in well even when trying to do so (he'd make little social mistakes even if he pretending to be a beggar simply because he doesn't know the unspoken societal rules), and you cannot throw him into the wild and expect him to survive. (Well. Not happily. You could certainly stretch it, say he doesn't need to eat or drink as much--or anything--if he stays in ghost mode, but you cannot tell me that child paid enough attention to actually learn which berries/mushrooms/etc were poisonous and which weren't, especially when most of what he would be able to reliably recognize might not grow in, oh, we'll go with Wales, shall we? Different environments, different species. Some overlap. Likely not enough overlap.) He's much more likely to resort to stealing food if he can't get any by asking for it, even if he doesn't like the idea, They'd be able to track his movements and hunt him down.

It would be a little like being hunted by Skulker, except it would take longer and involve markedly fewer missiles. (Arrows might not be missiles, but hey, he's not going to discriminate too much between projectiles flying at him that he can't afford to let hit him.) And these people would be better at it. Outside of Camelot, if someone like King Sarrum decided they wanted him? If they went after him, regardless of the cost? Possibly employing the use of sorcerers to track him down? Danny would be screwed.

Until he stumbles into someone who can help him, anyway.

Which would be about ten seconds after he stumbles into someone he knows but doesn't recognize him, as Princess Dorathea is very much alive at this point in time, and Merlin is rattling off an apology for the both of them because he can feel something about Danny that tells him the boy isn't as ordinary as he appears, and not listening to his gut has come back to bite Merlin in the past.

(see more musings)

[paullicino]

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan���s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

[biwenqing]

fitting into place

late with this prompt, here is ‘only one bed’ @tsomdevents. also on ao3. cw: references to ptsd

Sui Zhou looked at the inn room with its single bed. He doubted that Tang Fan had done this on purpose, given the fact that Sui Zhou didn't have a great track record with having a sleeping companion. It was better of late, but that was just with Tang Fan, who had figured out how to exist in Sui Zhou's space in a way that was grounding, as well as how to wake Sui Zhou up without triggering the part of him that never left the battlefield.

Wang Zhi brushed around him and offered a thoughtful, "Hm."

"I'll sleep on the floor," Sui Zhou offered. It wouldn't be that bad, there was a little mat even. He had slept on far worse. It was more open too, not like a packed tent or ground with bodies around him-

"Suit yourself," Wang Zhi said, and moved further in, inspecting things. Probably noting ways that the room could be entered, ways it could be escaped. Sui Zhou had already noted them himself out of old habit, but there was something reassuring to know that someone else had taken the time. "We're only here for one night, correct?"

"Unless something goes wrong," Sui Zhou said as he set down his bag.

"Ah, in that case, I’ll plan for three evenings, knowing the sort of trouble that will no doubt be uncovered," Wang Zhi said, a half-smile on his face. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you really think this is the last room, or is the innkeeper just annoyed and messing with us?"

Sui Zhou frowned, before realizing that Wang Zhi was trying to joke. He was getting better at reading Wang Zhi, though it still could be hard. But when Sui Zhou remembered he had been raised within palace politics, the little signs were there to catch.

"Is it nice?" Tang Fan appeared, eating something. Sui Zhou didn't even bother wondering where he had found the time to purchase food.

"The view is, we'll be able to observe much of the main town," Wang Zhi reported. "Sui Zhou's sleeping on the floor though."

"Why's that- oh," Tang Fan looked from where Sui Zhou was leaning by the window to where Wang Zhi was sitting on the only bed. "That's not fair."

"Apparently your negotiation skills were lacking," Wang Zhi said flatly.

"You want to get us rooms next time then?" Tang Fan asked, moving further in. "At least no one else came with us for this mission, it would be cramped." He tossed a look at Wang Zhi that had Sui Zhou covering a smile. "Unless some bodyguard of yours is hidden somewhere?"

Wang Zhi shook his head. "We're undercover, remember?" He gestured to his plain robes in emphasis.

Sui Zhou had dressed in his simple navy, finding not being in uniform a bit of a relief. It had been one boring, long case after another in the capital of late. Maybe that’s why they all jumped on the opportunity to collect information elsewhere. Even with issues of the sleeping situation, this was going to be a refreshing change.

He was clearly not the only one to think so. “Leave your bags, and let’s go!” Tang Fan said, tossing his own into a corner. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

~.~

Somewhere in all of this, Wang Zhi had managed to negotiate another mattress be added to the room and Sui Zhou happily settled easily into sleep that evening, having spent much of the day reading documents at the local governor's office. He was woken some hours later by a repeated poke on his arm. It wasn't like anything that reminded him of war and it took him a moment to fully wake up as he blearily blinked at the outline of someone sitting beside him.

"Wang Zhi?" he asked, keeping his voice low. The room was still dark and Wang Zhi didn't seem concerned about anything (or have his little gun out) so Sui Zhou let himself relax.

"I want to sleep on the floor." Wang Zhi whispered.

Sui Zhou squinted at him for a long moment before it clicked. He sat up and sure enough, Tang Fan had managed to spread out across the whole bed, kicking off Wang Zhi. "You can just move him, he won't wake up," Sui Zhou advised.

"No, he has too many sharp parts, it's not worth it." Wang Zhi nudged Sui Zhou's shoulder with his hand. His hair was down, falling around his face, and left him looking much less intimidating than usual. "You can deal with him."

Sui Zhou was perfectly comfortable where he was and Wang Zhi wasn't wrong, Tang Fan did have very sharp elbows, though Sui Zhou didn’t really mind. The real issue was this bed was a good deal smaller than the one they shared at home, and it made Sui Zhou feel a little trapped just thinking about it. He shrugged and said, "No."

Wang Zhi frowned in the dim light. He didn't ask any more questions though, seeming to chew on Sui Zhou's answer before deciding, "Alright, move over then, I'll just join you."

The mattress was about the same size as the bed but was not up against a wall. Sui Zhou could also continue to sleep facing the door. Deciding this was acceptable and the quickest way for him to get back to sleep, he shifted over.

He felt as Wang Zhi moved and settled at his back, maintaining space between them. After a moment of still and quiet, Wang Zhi muttered a "thank you," and Sui Zhou couldn't help a smile as he drifted back to sleep.

~.~

Sui Zhou woke up to the morning sun streaming through the window and a comforting warmth against his back. He or Wang Zhi must have moved a bit in the night, though they both had otherwise kept still and to their side. Sui Zhou carefully moved to sit up, but Wang Zhi startled awake despite his care.

"It's alright," Sui Zhou murmured, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder to try and ground him. Sui Zhou knew the look on Wang Zhi's face, had seen it in the mirror before the reality and safety settled back in place.

Once it did, Wang Zhi, frowned, lay back down, and tugged the blanket over his head. Sui Zhou decided that meant he wanted to either be left alone or sleep more and set up getting ready for the day. This reaction made it clear as to why he hadn’t wanted to deal with Tang Fan - if Sui Zhou carefully moving was enough to wake Wang Zhi, it would be near impossible to deal with Tang Fan’s sleeping habits. Not without being used to them, at least.

Glancing over at the bed, Sui Zhou saw that Tang Fan seemed to have managed to flip all the way around in his sleep, his head where his feet had been. With a quiet chuckle, Sui Zhou attempted to wake him by rubbing his shoulder.

Tang Fan blinked up through his sleep mussed hair, before smiling. Sui Zhou loved all Tang Fan's smiles, but these sleepy morning ones were among his favorites. "Morning," Tang Fan yawned, sitting up. He then seemed confused. "I thought Wang Zhi was up with me."

"You kicked him out," Sui Zhou reported, knowing his voice was thick with amusement.

"Oh." Tang Fan looked at the lump of blanket on the floor. "That’s rather rude of me."

"Mhm," Sui Zhou turned to begin dressing for the day. "Who wants to get breakfast?"

Tang Fan bounded out of bed and followed suit. "There’s a place I noticed last night! We should try it." He rummaged around in his bag, pasting Sui Zhou a comb and accepting the washcloth handed in trade.

Wang Zhi asked, voice slightly muffled, "The one with the good tea I pointed out?"

"Yes," Tang Fan grinned.

Sui Zhou looked back and watched as Wang Zhi sighed and got up. As he passed Sui Zhou, Sui Zhou asked, "Are you okay?"

Wang Zhi blinked back in surprise, before waving him off, moving to the other side of the room. He often seemed surprised by little signs of kindness. "Fine."

Tang Fan followed him. "You'll have to let me make it up to you, for kicking you out."

"Yes, you owe me," Wang Zhi agreed. "And not anything that costs money, because I know it's Sui Zhou's."

"How about you both decide once we finish the case," Sui Zhou pointed out. "Or at least eat breakfast."

"Alright, but I'm holding him to it," Wang Zhi said.

"I have no doubt."

As they left to start their day, Sui Zhou couldn’t help but take note of how easily Wang Zhi had fit in with their morning routine. But that was another item to be dealt with once they were done.

[sheliesshattered]

This Isn’t A Ghost Story - Chapter 1

Whouffaldi non-canon AU. 8 chapters, will be about 32,000 words when complete. Rated Mature for heavier themes in later chapters, please contact me privately if you’re worried about triggering topics. Clara Oswald/Twelfth Doctor. Mystery, pining and angst with a happy ending. Available on AO3 under the same username and title. Updates every Friday.

This Isn’t A Ghost Story

Chapter 1: The House

14 November 2014, London

There was a certain amount of irony, Clara reflected, that her first reaction was I’m going to kill him.

Her ‘special friend’ had just cost her the sale of her late grandmother’s house. Again. This had to be roughly the twelfth adorable family or nice couple that had stepped into her ancestral family home only to turn tail and run before they’d even had a chance to hear about the antique hardwood floors or the fully restored kitchen. At this point, he wasn’t even being subtle about it anymore.

The longer the house sat on the market, the fewer calls she was getting to schedule walk-throughs of the property. She was beginning to worry that word of the house’s strangeness was getting around the local real estate community. If things kept up at this rate, she was going to end up permanently saddled with an inheritance whose tax burden she could barely afford, in the form of a one hundred and thirty year old, gorgeous, sprawling, haunted house.

Clara used her key to let herself in through the ornate front door, grumbling under her breath. As soon as she closed the door behind her, the cabinets in the kitchen began to rattle ominously.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, dropping her purse and keys on the small table in the foyer. “It’s just me.”

The door to one of the bedrooms upstairs slammed shut.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands and counted to ten before looking up again. “Listen, I get that you’re cross with me for bringing people by, but I am beyond livid with you, so let’s skip the part where I yell and you throw things and just agree to be angry with each other in silence, okay?”

The house went quiet in a manner entirely too creepy for her liking. If not for the undercurrent of petulant passive-aggressiveness, she might have actually been scared.

Not that Clara had ever really been scared of the ghost that lived in her Gran’s house. He had never once made her feel unsafe, not since she’d first spoken to him as a small child. But the sudden silence was still unnerving. 

“Well, good,” she said into the preternatural stillness, more to prove to herself that she wasn’t scared than anything else. “It’s nice to actually be able to hear myself think, for a change.”

The top step of the staircase creaked once, as if to make a point.

“Still shut up,” she grumbled.

She went about the short list of tasks she’d come to see to, putting away the food she’d set out for the potential home buyers, watering the plants, closing the curtains, and flicking on a few lamps to make the house look lived-in. Of course, she didn’t envy anyone who tried to break into the house while it sat apparently empty. At some level, a poltergeist was better home protection than a dog could ever be. 

Her chores complete, Clara returned to the foyer to find her purse where she’d left it, but her keys conspicuously missing. She sighed, hands on her hips, and turned towards the cold spot she could feel forming near the foot of the stairs. He was nothing but a faint wispy outline in the direct light of the setting sun filtering through the stained glass window over the front door, but even that outline was familiar enough that Clara was able to find his eyes and fix him with a displeased glare.

“Where are my keys?” she demanded. She still hadn’t forgiven him for his behaviour earlier, and she was in no mood to play find-the-lost-trinket tonight.

“I didn’t want you to leave before I could apologise,” the ghost said, not quite meeting her gaze. His voice raised gooseflesh along her arms, as usual, but she much preferred the low rumble of his Scottish brogue to the slamming of doors and rattling of cupboards. Not that she would ever openly admit that to him.

“So apologise and tell me where you’ve hidden my keys!”

“Clara,” he said, and she clenched her teeth against the shivery reaction she always had to the way he said her name, like it had been invented just so he could say it. There were days when she lived for that rush — and many, many lonely nights, in her love-struck teenaged years — but today was absolutely not one of them.

“...Was there more to that sentence?” she asked when he didn’t go on. “Saying my name does not constitute an apology.”

He glanced up at her, looking increasingly solid as the sunlight waned. “I’m sorry I upset you. That wasn’t my intention.”

“No, your intention was to make certain I can’t sell this house, and don’t bother to deny it.”

He chewed his incorporeal lip for a moment, then shrugged. “I won’t deny it. I don’t want you to sell the house. But I’m still sorry I upset you.”

Clara sighed. “I have to sell it. You know this. And someday, someone too brave or too stupid to fall for all your clattering will decide to buy this place, and that’ll be that.”

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded, his eyes glinting blue in the gathering dusk.

“It’s the reality of the situation, so you’d best start making peace with it,” she said evenly. Another irony not lost on her: arguing the state of reality with a man dead nearly a century. “Now, where are my keys?”

Her ghost hesitated. “You don’t have to leave,” he said. “You could stay?”

“I never stay the night in this house. That was your advice to me, more than twenty years ago. No sense in breaking with tradition.”

“I think maybe I was being overly paranoid at the time.”

“And I think maybe you’re acting like a lonely old man now,” Clara snarked back.

“Alone in a house that you of all people are dead-set on evicting me from? I can’t imagine why I’d be lonely!” 

“It’s not like you’re stuck here! You’re not tied to the house, you can go anywhere you want!”

“But it’s my house!”

“Keys, now!” she snapped. “Traffic is already going to be horrendous—”

“All the more reason to stay,” he said petulantly.

“But,” she went on forcefully, speaking over him, “tomorrow’s Saturday, so I have the day off work. If you tell me where my keys are, I’ll come back first thing in the morning. I still need to finish going through all those old boxes in the attic. We can spend the day working on that together, okay?”

“You’re going to drive all the way home only to turn around and come back in the morning? Why not just—”

“Or I could spend the day doing something fun with people my own age, very far away from here,” she bluffed. “Your choice.”

“Oh, fine,” he said, shoulders sagging. “Your keys are hidden in the parlour, I’ll show you where.”

“Thank you,” she said mildly, and followed him into the next room.

--

As promised, Clara arrived back at her grandmother’s house early the next morning, take-away coffee cup in hand. There had been a moment, whilst she stood in the queue to order, when she’d found herself thinking she ought to get two coffees, bring her ghost a peace offering to smooth over their row from the night before. Thankfully she’d realised how ridiculous that sounded before it was her turn to order, but she still felt strangely off balance as she unlocked the front door and let herself in, like she had forgotten something important.

“Hey,” she called to the empty house, as soon as she closed the door behind her. “It’s just me, no need to go rattling the hinges on my account.”

Her ghost appeared in a shadowy corner of the foyer, smiling at her shyly. “Good morning, my Clara,” he said. “You look lovely today. Have you had a wash?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore the somersaulting of her heart at the way he said her name. My Clara. “Why are you being nice?”

“Because it works on you,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “And because I really am sorry about yesterday,” he added.

“Well, apology accepted,” Clara said. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you. The process of selling this place has been entirely too stressful, and I’m really starting to worry it won’t happen before the property taxes are due,” she sighed.

He ran a semi-transparent hand through the short curls at the back of his head, the ring he wore on his left hand briefly catching the light. “Yeah, about that...”

She winced. “What did you do?”

“The post came early today,” he said, voice even more apologetic than before. “I didn’t open it, but one of the envelopes has a rather official looking return address. I put it on the dining room table for you.”

She left her keys and purse on the table by the door and trudged off to the dining room, unable to contain her groan when she saw the envelope in question. Opening it, she found that he was right: property taxes were due in six weeks, the total even higher than she had anticipated. It was more than she made in a month at her teaching job. Even with the small amount she had stashed away in savings, she would hardly be able to pay it and the rent on her flat, and still expect to feed herself.

“What about the rest of your inheritance?” he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

“I put it all into fixing up this place to sell,” she said.

“Which I’ve made impossible,” he murmured.

Clara covered her face with her hands, trying not to cry and hoping he wouldn’t notice. Yes, he was the reason she hadn’t been able to sell the house to any of the dozen or so buyers who had shown initial interest. But he was also the only one in her life who even knew or cared what she was going through.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she told him honestly, still hiding behind her hands. “If I don’t pay it, they’ll just add late fees on top of that already ridiculously large sum. If I can’t sell the house soon...”

She felt a cold touch drift across the back of her hands, felt her hair stir in a nonexistent breeze, and wished, not for the first time in her life, that her ‘special friend’ was the sort of friend who could offer a hug when she so desperately needed one.

“I don’t suppose there’s a secret stash of diamonds in the attic?” she asked him, only half joking. “Or a map to buried treasure?”

“You are descended from a line of exceptionally adventuresome women,” he replied, voice sounding distant and thoughtful. “I haven’t been up to the attic in years. I don’t know what all is in there, but anything is possible.”

Clara dropped her hands from her face and squared her shoulders, not looking at her ghost until she was certain she wouldn’t spontaneously burst into tears. “Well, let’s hope there’s something up there that will help.”

--

The attic had never been Clara’s favourite place in her Gran’s house, cramped and dusty and full of ancient boxes that gave off a far creepier vibe than the literal ghost had ever managed to do. But on the plus side, it was also windowless, dim enough that he was able to appear to her in a fairly solid state and even move lightweight objects as though he were a real person existing in the real world.

She had removed the larger pieces from the attic weeks ago, furniture and blanket chests and trunks of old clothing, all sorted through and donated to charity or brought back to her flat, or else restored to the best of Clara’s ability and set out to decorate the house in a manner befitting its age. All that remained were boxes of keepsakes, photographs and journals and old letters, small family things that required far more of her attention to sort through. 

Despite the lingering threat of the taxes due, it was a pleasant morning, sitting together amidst the papers and dust, slowly uncovering the history of her family, layer on layer, like an archaeologist digging through levels of sediment. Her Gran had spent her entire life in this house, from the time she was a baby, used it as a homebase during her adventurous youth, married and raised her own daughter in it, and continued to live in it after her husband died. The boxes that littered the attic bore witness to all those many decades.

“Oh my god, these photos of Mum,” Clara said, turning the yellowed album towards her ghost so he could see them, in all their early 1970s glory. “She must have been, what, about fifteen in these?”

“Ellie’s first formal school dance,” he confirmed, leaning in to examine the photos. “With that older boy, I forget his name. Your grandfather did not approve.”

Clara snorted. “Can’t say I blame him. Look at those sideburns. I’m not sure I would have let her go out with him at all.”

“They had a huge row about it, if I remember correctly. In the end, your grandmother took your mother’s side, and she was allowed to go.”

“Why didn’t you ever appear to any of them?” she asked, flipping through the pages and pausing to linger on what looked to be polaroids of a rugby game. “You were here all that time, but you never talked to anyone until I came along?”

He shrugged. “You were the only one that was you.”

“Thanks. That clears it right up.”

“It’s the only answer I’ve got,” he objected.

“I scared the daylights out of Mum and Gran when I told them about you, I was probably all of six years old at the time.”

“Five, I think,” he said quietly.

“God, five. I might have a heart attack if my five year old started talking very confidently about her special friend the ghost that lives at Gran’s house.”

“I seem to remember advising you against telling them.” 

“And in all the time you’ve known me, when have I ever taken your advice?” she asked archly.

“Hmm. There was that one time you actually listened to me, about that chap you were dating, what’s-his-name.”

Clara winced, remembering it all too well. “I thought we agreed never to speak of him again.”

“Gladly,” her ghost replied emphatically.

She shook her head, more than happy to dismiss the subject. “As a child it didn’t make sense to me not to tell Mum and Gran about you. You live in Gran’s house, the house where Mum grew up, I just assumed they already knew about you. I mean, why wouldn’t they?”

“I’m not sure I could have talked to them, even if I’d wanted to. And I never did want to.”

Clara turned her gaze to him, studying his face in the dimness. Without direct sunlight, he looked almost human, almost alive, the blue of his eyes and the salt and pepper of his hair appearing so very real, so very close at hand. He still seemed as ageless to her now as he had when she was a child. Ageless and ancient, wise and funny, solemn and sardonic. She thought perhaps she knew his face better than any other, living or dead.

“But why didn’t you ever want to talk to them?” she pressed.

“Why do you need a key to enter the house?” he asked in response.

She felt her eyebrows come together in consternation. “Because the door is locked.”

“But why that key?”

“Because... that’s the key that fits. That’s the key that goes with that lock.”

He shrugged, most of his attention on the page of the journal he’d been perusing. “You are the key that fits. I can’t give you a better answer than that.”

--

Chapter 2: The Box

[ibtk]

Book Review: THE SEVENTH MANSION by Maryse Meijer

(Full disclosure: I received a free e-ARC for review though Edelweiss. Trigger warning for sexual assault, homophobia, violence against animals, and disturbing sexual content.)

-- 4.5 stars --

There is this person I love. And he’s not even a person.

After Xie's parents split and an environmental disaster sends his already precarious mental health spiraling, Xie and his father Erik relocate from California to an unnamed town in the rural south, in search of the proverbial fresh start.

At first, Xie is your garden-variety teenage outcast: melancholy. goth. vegan. an outsider. friendless. forgettable. Yet he's quickly "adopted" by the only other vegans in the school - girlfriends Jo and Leni, who together make up the entirety of FKK.

The group's animal rights activism slowly evolves from leafleting to direct action: the trio breaks into a local mink farm, freeing as many of its captives as they can. Xie is nabbed during the getaway, and suddenly he goes from "nobody" to "that freak who vandalized the Moore farm". Instead of silence and indifference, Xie is met by hostile sneers, gossip, and relentless bullying. He takes a leave of absence from high school, instead getting one-on-one tutoring at the local library. His parents are forced to pay restitution, and Xie's placed on probation.

Xie's only respite is nature: his burgeoning vegetable garden; the small but pristine forest behind his house; and, eventually, the mysterious light, nestled among the branches, that leads him to a tiny church - and his beloved. St. Pancratius, who was martyred in 304 A.D. and whose remains are on covert display in a one-room church in the middle of nowhere.

He traces the image with his finger. The story the same in every version: A boy on a road, refusing to lift his sword against the lamb, losing his head every time the story is told, again and again and again.

Still, all of this comes with a cost: loving nature, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral, means saying goodbye to it one day. Relationships can be messy, even when they're with clean bones. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in our own shit that we're oblivious to what our loved ones are going through. Maybe your tutor shows up to work one day piss drunk and tells you about her abortion. Or your friends drag you to a backwoods meeting of environmental activists, where one of them sexually assaults you. Or you show up to a mass protest that is even more massive than you anticipated, and find you're unable to protect yourself, let alone the 55 billion+ land animals slaughtered for food every year in the US alone (animalclock.org).

The problem is too big, even when it's one of the smaller ones. The problem is impossible.

While disturbing, Xie's theft of a skeleton is not the worst crime he'll commit in his teen years. As FKK becomes involved with a local animal rights group, and Xie's sanctuary is threatened, he careens toward an inevitable (????) collision with the outside world, which neither understands him - nor cares to. (Fuck capitalism.)

THE SEVENTH MANSION is one weird-ass book; I mean, the main character has sex with a skeleton (!). This is certainly the wildest aspect of the story, but it's not alone. For example, take the narrative structure, which has a kind of stream-of-(Xie's)-consciousness vibe. Many of the sentences are fractured, even forced, as though we're pulling them from the depth's of Xie's tortured soul. His thoughts. Are broken. Up. Like this. Conversely, there are no chapters, and so many of the paragraphs are just huge, unbroken blocks of text - almost as though Meijer is framing Xie in opposition to the larger world around him.*

I suspect that THE SEVENTH MANSION is one of those love it or hate it dealios. Personally, I loved it, even as some parts proved excruciatingly unbearable to read.

I don't know whether Meijer is vegan, but she gets so much right; sometimes it felt like she was rooting around inside my head. I went vegetarian my freshman year of college (1996, not to date myself) and vegan about 9 years later. Reading Xie was like having a mirror held up to my own depressive, anxious, vegan psyche. One thing carnists probably don't realize about walking around this world as a vegan is: it takes a ton of mental work, of suppression and dissociation, just to get through the day.

Animal suffering is omnipresent, and largely accepted. From Carl's Jr. commercials to classroom trips to the zoo; leather car seats to team lunches at non-vegan restaurants, where you'll be forced to watch your coworkers and friends devour the corpse of a once-living creature - someone's mother, brother, or child - we are constantly forced to bear witness to the oppression of animals. Worse, to pretend as though it's of no consequence: just to get along, or because doing otherwise would quickly devour your time, your prospects, your relationships. To say that it's depressing is an understatement.

Whether Xie is living through the oil spill that finally made his world "snap," or gazing into the eyes of caged mink, I was right there with him, trying not to cry. Not to break. There's so much suffering in the world; if you try to take it all in, to truly understand its scope, it will swallow you whole.

Speaking of the oil spill, which was the impetus for Xie to go vegan - Meijer's description of this moment in Xie's life brought back so many memories. When I decided to stop eating meat, I was working at a local grocery store. Every now and again, they had an employee appreciation dinner (in lieu of a raise, natch), which basically consisted of all you can eat burgers and hot dogs in the break room. Everyone would stuff their faces, taking in as many free calories as possible. Not because they were hungry, but to get as much of a leg up on our cheap ass employer as possible. The sheer gluttony and waste of it all is what finally did it for me. No one needed to eat seven hamburgers in one night; we did because we could, because not doing so would be to lose out. The working class eating the chattel, and no one eating the rich.

Point being, that's a singular moment in my life that I'll never forget. It stands out in stark relief, right alongside the deaths of my husband and furkids (six dogs and one cat down and counting). If I close my eyes, I can almost transport myself back there, white starched shirt, demo table, 7PM Friday fatigue, and all.

The last time he ate meat he was twelve years old, after the spill: Xie was Alex then. Even miles from the beach, they could smell something off; at first they thought it was the sandwiches, ham pressed hot in the pockets of Erik’s windbreaker, but the closer they got to the beach the stronger the smell became, noxious, chemical. They parked at their usual spot, yellow tape blocking access to the beach beyond. A black ribbon flat against the horizon; that was the water. No trace of blue. On the rocks below the lot a half dozen pelicans huddled together. Coated from beak to foot in oil. Don’t touch them, his father said. Someone will come wash it off. But there was no one. The black sea lapping the sand. Those bewildered eyes. He watched as one of the birds collapsed, its head twisted sideways against its folded neck. His father pulled him away. The fire on the water burned for two weeks; the beach remained black for a year. Sea turtles, dolphins, whales, gulls, crabs, otters, fish, birds rolled up by the waves in the tens of thousands. Oil on meat on sand. No stopping it. Xie got headaches, bloody noses; he was always tired, couldn’t sleep. His mother standing in the doorway, Stop playing games, you’re fine. But his father was never angry. Scared of what he saw. Xie in the dark. Unable to make it from one room to another. The people who used to go to the beach just went somewhere else. Life as usual. Slumped in the backseat as his father fed gas into the truck he suddenly couldn’t stand it. Stopped standing it. He opened the back door, started walking. Alex, his father called, but he was not Alex anymore. He poured out all the milk in the house and fed the meat to the dogs next door and rode his bike everywhere.

So yeah, our circumstances may be different, but Xie's conversion sure hit me in the feels.

Meijer also does an excellent job capturing the heartbreak and urgency of Millennials and Gen Z. As tormented as I might have been in high school, at least I had the luxury of not thinking too much about climate change - at least until Al Gore came along. Xie and his peers, on the other hand, will bear the brunt of their predecessors' unchecked greed. Nowhere is this divide more eloquently laid bare than in Jo's post-march argument with Erik (who is likely around my age):

Didn’t you see how he just folded up out there? He can’t protect himself, he won’t. You don’t know what he was like, before we came here, okay, you didn’t watch him, lying in bed day after day, ready to cut his goddamn throat because of all this shit, this constant litany of doomsday statistics, he just takes it in and he can’t—he doesn’t know what to do with it, and you want to keep shoving it in his face, when it’s—it’s enough! Staring at Jo, who stares back. Look, whatever you’re afraid of, whatever he’s afraid of, it’s already happening, okay? And he knows it, he’s living it, and he wants to do something about it. If there was some other option, some fantasyland where everything is going to be fine as long as we bury our heads in the sand, then believe me, I’d take it. But there’s not. Not for me and not for Leni and not for Xie and if you think you can protect him by denying that then you’re just—wrong. I’m sorry. She holds Erik’s gaze; he nods, the first to look away.

My gods, that scene just cuts me to the bone. As bleak as things are now, I cannot imagine going through all this - climate change, COVID-19, a Trump presidency, Democratic ineptitude/complicity, *gesturing wildly* - as an adolescent. Their elders cut them down before they even started crawling.  

On a lighter note, Xie's scenes with his clueless mom and her equally clueless new husband (Jerry!) brought a(n admittedly wry) smile to my face. If I had a penny for every times this scene has played out in my life, I'd have enough cash monies to start my own animal sanctuary.

Don’t you want some vegetables, Xie? Jerry asks. I don’t eat animal products, Xie murmurs, and Jerry, confused, staring at the green beans, How is this— Butter, Xie interrupts. Butter is from milk, which is from cows, which are animals. Jerry blinks. Gosh, I didn’t even think of that. Sorry. Xie shrugs.

There's so much to obsess about here: I love Jo and Leni together, and their opposing circumstances just make the relationship so much more complex - and potentially fraught. Erik and tutor Karen (I wonder if the name choice was intentional?) are interesting supporting characters, and their relationships with Xie are so beautiful and nuanced; they both support him the best they know how.

Xie's interactions with his phantom lover are a little more confusing and difficult for me to comprehend. Perhaps P. represents Xie's inability to connect with the human world around him, or at least not as well as the more abstract, ephemeral natural world. Possibly P. is Xie's ideal human: one who would rather die than raise a finger against an animal (or one who cannot disappoint you by voicing their own opinions). Or maybe it's simpler than that, and Xie's hallucinations are just that: hallucinations. In any case, it made an already odd book absolutely bizarre, but in a good way, so I can't complain.

* This could just be because I was reading an early copy in need of further editing - but, seeing as how some formatting was already present, I think it was intentional. https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3672191091

[disneychannie]

perpetually | k.junmyeon

pairings: junmyeon x reader

word count: 2.4k words

genre: fluff, slice of life au, non-idol au

warnings: mild swearing, mentions of subtle smut

summary: junmyeon knows for sure that he was going to mary you and make him your forever. though he was sure you were going to say ‘yes’ he still had doubt. i mean, who wouldn’t when he was dating the most prettiest girl on planet earth?

(capslock unintended)

to junmyeon, you were like a snowflake.

pure, soft, and most of all beautiful, inside and out. it was no doubt that one day he was going to propose to you. being together for almost 6 years pretty much seals the deal that he wants to be with you forever.

having to meet each other during your first years of uni till now, it was pretty shocking that the both of you managed to stay together for that long and keep loving each other even more every single day.

he loved the way you helped him go through law school with such ease and practically made everything easier for him despite you yourself having your own studies to worry over, you still chose to help junmyeon help whenever you could. thanks to you he was now one of the best new layers despite just having to get the job at a prestigious law firms two years ago. you on the other hand were a nurse at a hospital near his office which was easier for the both of you. which then evolves to the both of you going to work together (when you don’t have the late night shifts) and having quick lunch breaks at the local cafe nearby.

it was perfect.

the topic of getting married has been brought up a few times by him and he remembered how your eyes lit up at the idea of starting a big family with junmyeon with little cardboard copies of you running around your home. it was the future you could think of with junmyeon. but the both of you agreed to think about the whole marriage and kids stuff once you have stable jobs and is financially stable.

but what you didn’t know was that junmyeon has been saving up for a trip to paris where he planned on proposing to you there. he knew how cliché it sounds now that he think of It but he knows how much you love those kinds of things. sappy romance movies, dancing in the pouring rain, you were a sucker for those and junmyeon had to admit that he was too.

so what’s better than having to propose to you at the city of love in front of the infamous eiffel tower? 

what's amazing about it is that he didn't exactly think twice about wanting to propose to you. he knew that you were ready and so was he, so fuck it why not just do it? 

it did take him a lot of reassurance to actually muster up and go on with his plans from his best friend sehun. thought the younger knew how anxious his older friend could be, he knew that in the end this is still what he wanted and he wouldn’t change his mind.

though junmyeon at heart is sure that you will say yes, he is aware that things could go wrong and just the span of the trip and that got him all work up. the anxiousness costed him extra stress and two bottles of vodka. 

“what if she says no sehun? i don’t know if I can move on with life anymore,” junmyeon slurred. even with the amount of alcohol in his system, he still managed to think about you rejecting his proposal.

sehun only managed to grab the vodka bottle from his hand and wrapped his arms around his hyung’s shoulder.

“stop saying nonsense, you and I know that she’s going to say yes, she loves you too much to say no hung and you’re conscious of that right? you guys are meant for each other it’s impossible for you two to be apart from eachother,” 

“you’re right sehun,” junmyeon said bringing his head up from the bar table. “she’s going to say yes,”

so the next morning, he woke up to you probably at work already seemingly mostly on saturdays you still had to go to the hospital. he then saw the aspirin and the glass of water on his bedside table with a little note attached to it.

“to my junmyeon, you were pretty darn drunk last night and I can’t believe sehun told me you finished a bottle of vodka by yourself! that’s hot tbh take the pills and I'll see you tonight my love!”

- your sweet y/n :p

hell fucking yeah he was going to marry you

it was almost mid night when you came home and you were still in your dirty scrubs when you opened your apartment door to be met with junmyeon on the couch bundled up with your cat sleeping peacefully at at the other end of the sofa. 

startled from the sound of the door being swung open, he looked up from his phone and saw that you’ve arrived already. 

“myeon? why aren’t you asleep yet?” you questioned while shrugging your coat off from your cold body. though you weren’t complaining seemingly junmyeon was usually knocked out by 10. 

standing up from his laying position on the cozy couch he watched as you dropped your back on the coffee table as you walked over to him.

“is everything okay? you look pretty pale, are you sick?” you started to ramble on with questions at his tired figure. even with your probably stained with blood scrubs and the evident dark circles under your eyes, you still looked beautiful to him.

junmyeon just laughed and held your small hands in his big ones.

“I just have a surprise for you, I wanted to tell you over dinner tomorrow but I’m too excited to wait that long,” he said, his palms starting to get pretty sweaty from being too nervous.

“what is it?” you said grinning suddenly excited over what his surprise could be.

“I was planning on taking you to a wonderful week in paris as a vacation and, before you could say anything, I already talked this over with the hospital and they agreed on giving one of their best nurses a well-deserved break,” he said.

you couldn’t contain your joy and started squealing as you jumped around from your spot obviously happy that you finally got to go to your dream vacation place. junmyeon just smiled at your excited figure. 

you’re cute

“oh my god junmyeon is this for real? please don’t lie to me,” you said with a pleading look on your face.

“y/n,” junmyeon said as he laughed, “why would I be lying to you? after all these years you still think I would joke about this stuff?”

you then pulled his collar so that you could give him a loving kiss on the lips. by instinct, junmyeon then wrapped his arms around your small figure as your lips move in sync.

“thank you junmyeon, I really appreciate this so much,” you said as tears started to form in your eyes. you were definitely stressed from work and this one week vacation to a magical place seemed like a whole package for you.

“you know you deserve this right? I'm just being a good boyfriend,” he replied.

you then grinned and pulled him closer.

“let me show you how good you are then,” you whispered.

-

it was finally the day of the trip and it was hard to go throughout the weeks till the day of your departure without having to daydream about all the things you were bound to do with junmyeon there.

on the plane junmyeon know how you couldn’t control your excitement as you kept looking out the window of the airplane from your window seat with excitement in your eyes. the clouds looked the softest as you told junmyeon how you wanted to just flop and snuggle on the pillows. instead, you snuggled against his shoulders as you waited for your arrival.

the second you stepped of the airport you couldn’t stop squealing. you were finally here! all junmyeon could do was genuinely smile at your ethics. no doubt you’re cute when you’re excited.

the two of you opted on just sleeping as soon as you arrived at your hotel room because it was already past midnight and you needed every energy you needed to go touring around the city the next day.

that night you slept close to junmyeon as he held you tightly against his bigger figure. even with all the energy you had in the beginning, the second your head hit the pillows, you were a goner.

junmyeon couldn’t sleep that night, instead he thought about how the proposal would go. he was scared that you were gonna reject his proposal though he already knew you were gonna say yes. you’ll never know how things are going to go in the future.

the next few days were amazing as it could already. you tried so many new food and went to every cafe you passed by and tried the pastries and coffees there. you even visited the famous tourist attractions there and didn’t forget to take aesthetic pictures of each other. being the museum enthusiast you and junmyeon are, you visited the oh so famous Louvre Museum where you and even junmyeon were ecstatic about. having to only see them in television shows and pictures, you finally got to see it in real life.

and you couldn’t forget to visit the Eiffel Tower. where junmyeon planned on proposing to you. but he planned on doing it the night before you had to leave, in front of the shinning Eiffel Tower with the stars shining above you.

the second you saw the Eiffel Tower, the look on your face was as if a kid who had just gotten his favourite candy. you and junmyeon bought the warm churros and bagel from one of the many food trucks and two cups of hot chocolate as you both strolled along the park, talking about everything and anything with laughter filling the air.

things were going great just like he planned it to be and seeing you happy like this made his insides feel warm and made the butterflies in his stomach erupt. you looked beautiful with your hair dancing around with the wind, even if some stuck on your face, you still looked like an angel with that beautiful smile on your face and how your eyes would smile as you do.

finally, the last night strolled on by fairly quickly as the both of you are now walking hand in hand to the Eiffel Tower. the night was rather cold and junmyeon didn't forget to pack a few more hot packs with him knowing you might forget and get yourself sick from the cold.

“I'm sad now that it’s the last day,” you mumbled lowly as you finally made it to the Eiffel Tower, now just admiring how the tower sparkled that night. the stars seemed to shine brighter and it only brought more anxiousness to junmyeon.

he could feel his hand start to sweat as you got closer to the tower in hopes you didn't realise how clammy his hands felt. though the weather was cold, the sight of you was enough to make his face feel hot and he could feel the sweat slowly trickling down his neck. 

turning to look at you, in fact you did look devastated at the thoughts of leaving this beautiful place but you still had a glimpse of smile plastered on your face and it made junmyeon felt wobbly, his legs about to give up on him.

“it is, but there’s something I have to do before we leave here,” he said, finally the courage he had before slowly seep through his veins.

confused you turned to him and you could see the softness of his eyes. 

“what are you talking about myeon?” you said, totally unaware of the situation. which was a good thing about this whole thing since you were gullible yourself and he hoped you didn't instantly got caught on with what he was about to or it was going to ruin the whole plan.

taking your small hands in his large ones, he began to speak.

“y/n, you’re one of the greatest that had happen to me, though our encounter was rather embarrassing, I could never forget that day where I first laid my eyes on you. the day I fell in love with you. till today, my love for you isn’t only the same but it has grew bigger every single day. I seriously don’t know what I'll do if I didn’t have you by my side. the way you helped me get through law school even though you had your own course to deal with. you were there for every breakdown I had, every milestone I hit, and I'm glad I was there for you too. my love for you will never stop and it will remain that way till the day I die.” 

tears started to prick in your eyes. you knew exactly where this was going.

“so y/n, y/l/n,” he started before pulling out a small velvet ring box out of his pocket and getting on one knee. opening the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring.

this is it

“will you marry me?” 

those were the words you’ve been waiting for since the day you’ve met.

a tear slipped down your cheeks and so did junmyeon’s. without hesitation you nodded before shakily replying,

“yes junmyeon, fuck yes of course,” 

relief washed over junmyeon as he was smiling from ear to ear. slipping the ring on your finger, he stood up and kissed you for the first time as your fiancé.

the people around you were clapping and cheering at the sweet moment.

you pulled away and he cupped his hands on your cheeks, wiping the tears from eyes.

“I'm so glad you proposed here, very cliche, I like it,” you said.

“of course you do, I know how it works in the kdramas you watch,” he replied smirking.

“hey junmyeon?” 

“yeah,” he replied, looking at you in the eye as if you were one of the shinning start at the sky that night.

“I love you.” with that you pulled him into a loving kiss again.

and you were glad that you could do it now every day of your life,

together.

[avaantares]

My New Ventilated Social-Distancing Movie Theatre

(or, how I bought a 2020-proof social life for less than $100)

So the USA is (still) a hot mess in terms of pandemic response. Because both my father and I are at increased risk for complications from COVID-19, and my sister and I have to work together in person to run our workshops, my entire family has been in a state of self-quarantine for six months straight (with no end in sight). But it’s hard being in constant isolation, so the four households that comprise my local family have been doing weekly outdoor gatherings -- with plenty of hand sanitizer and safely-spaced tables -- so we can see each other and socialize at a distance. However, that’s only feasible when the weather cooperates.

I’ve also really missed watching movies with friends, which prior to the pandemic had been a regular activity. I have a 70-year-old tripod screen I inherited from my grandfather and a projector I use for running panels at conventions, so we’ve watched occasional DVDs outdoors, but we could only do that on evenings without wind (which could tear the brittle screen) or rain (which would damage the projector), and we have to be careful not to have the sound too loud because it might disturb the neighbors.

A couple weeks ago, when our city delayed reopening again due to rising COVID-19 case numbers, I decided to convert half of my garage into an outdoor movie theatre. It turned out pretty well, and it only cost about what I would spend on movie tickets in an average year (and since I’m not going to any movies in 2020, it’s pretty much a wash). I’m sharing the details in case it gives anyone else ideas for making a health-conscious social hangout!

Obviously YMMV, and in areas with higher case numbers (hi, FL & AZ), this still might be too much contact. Be safe and follow official recommendations to prevent viral spread, folks!

The Space

Before I settled on the garage, I considered building a movie space under a tent canopy (nixed because they’re almost impossible to anchor through Midwest storm winds) or carport kit (too expensive and high-maintenance for me), so there are definitely other options depending on where you live, your typical weather, and what space you have available!

My garage has an unusual layout that allows for better-than-average ventilation. When it was first built, it was a 2 1/2-car garage with the doors facing the street and windows on the side. About 40 years later, the owners decided to move the driveway to the other side of the house, so they built a second garage attached to the drive-door side and knocked out an end wall to put in a new overhead door. This means that by square footage, the garage could hold four cars, but the way the drive doors are situated, it’s a divided two-car garage with a bunch of extra space at the far end. The two sides are connected by one of the original overhead doors, which means that three of the four walls have openings that allow for air movement. (More on that below.)

Normally there’s a car in each side of the garage, but I decided I was willing to park outside all summer for the sake of having a social life. Over the course of a week, I emptied and thoroughly cleaned the half of the garage that has the windows.

Air Flow

Constant fresh air flow is critical to flushing aerosolized particles that can spread the virus, so in order to make a safe indoor space, I had to simulate outdoor air movement. I opened all three overhead doors and both windows, then placed several fans to draw air through the building: One in each window, one along the side wall, and a box fan in the connecting door between the two sides of the garage to pull more air in from the outside. To make sure air was actually moving through the building and not just circulating within it, I turned on all the fans while I was sweeping the (very dusty) floor and walls, and adjusted the fan angles until the dust blew straight out the overhead door, rather hanging in the air or gathering in the corners. (Experts recommend that to prevent virus transmission, indoor spaces should have 100% air turnover every 10 minutes; obviously I have no way of testing that in a garage, but there is a constant light breeze through the building and stuff seems to be blowing out, so I feel pretty good about it.)

Projection Setup

I already had the projector and DVD player (I took the one out of my living room, since I usually just watch DVDs on my game console anyway), but I wanted a larger wall-mounted screen, since my grandfather’s 1950s screen was designed for showing vacation slides in a living room, not wide-screen films. Hanging fabric screens are very cheap, but I opted for a 120″ retractable screen so it would stay clean in the dusty garage. I also have an old set of monitor speakers that provide nice stereo sound.

Seating

The beauty of setting up in a garage is that it’s basically outdoors, so you can use lawn furniture or bean bags or old chairs you pulled out of someone’s trash (I do this regularly; it’s how I got my entire patio set). Measuring out at least 6 feet between each table and staggering their positions so nobody was directly downwind of another table, I set up all the card tables and folding tables I owned, and put a pair of chairs by each one so that couples from the same household could share a table but not be in close contact with any other groups. I put my largest folding table (which was also salvaged from the trash -- seriously, it’s the best way to get stuff!) against the wall right by the open door to serve as a snack table, so it’s on the opposite wall from the seating and nobody would be breathing on the food. I covered all the tables with decorative heavy-duty vinyl tablecloths (mostly for sanitation purposes, because those tables have been sitting out in my garage and I know I’ve had raccoons and opossums out there -- not to mention the colony of bats that lives in the loft off the back of the garage).

This setup can seat up to eight people, and even provides a place for serving food. (I put pump bottles of hand sanitizer on each table and on the food table, and people wear face masks when they’re loading up their plates, so there’s minimal contamination risk there.)

Total Cost

My out-of-pocket cost for this whole project was only about $83, though that’s because I already had a lot of stuff lying around. Here’s a more complete breakdown:

Fans: I already owned the box fan ($25 new) and a couple other fans that I’d picked up super cheap at garage sales ($5 or so), because my house is old and the HVAC is not very efficient. The only new fan I bought for this project was a refurbished air circulator from Amazon ($14), because I needed a small but high-velocity fan to fit in a window.

Projection setup: The only new thing I bought was the screen, which was $65 including shipping (though non-retractable fabric screens start around $10-15, so if you’re on a budget you can get one very cheap). I bought the projector used on eBay about eight years ago. I think I paid around $40 for it then, but prices have come down since; I’ve seen discount projectors for as low as $20. The DVD player is a cheapo region free model, which I got a decade ago for maybe $30. The speakers were secondhand; I’ve also used an old set of external PC speakers ($10 from Goodwill) when running video off my laptop, and they worked well enough in the indoor space.

Seating: Almost all the outdoor furniture I own came from other people’s trash, so I didn’t pay anything for it! Any kind of seating or tables will work, though. I did invest about $4 for new tablecloths, which I got on seasonal clearance.

Bonus Perks

I’ve discovered that the garage walls block a LOT of light and sound unless you’re standing directly outside the drive doors, so we can watch movies for half the night or stay up late chatting and we aren’t disturbing the neighbors! We couldn’t run movies out on the patio late at night because the sound would carry to neighboring houses.

Also, when we’re watching a film in the evening, we get to watch my bats fly through the garage on their way to and from dinner! (Which might be an annoyance to the bats if we were out there all the time, but we try to keep our volume low and we’re only out there about once a week, so I don’t think we’re disturbing them too much.) Bats are protected in my state, as some of the native species are critically endangered, and we try to encourage nesting as they’re essential to pest insect control. I love watching them fly around!

The setup also works well for video games. A local friend and I had been playing online, late at night because it was the only time we could get enough bandwidth to maintain connection (the ISP in my area is not super reliable), but now we can sit on opposite sides of the garage and play local co-op with no lag:

So, in summary, my “movie theatre” is by no means a luxurious setup, but it was cheap :) and it’s a great way for my small pandemic social bubble to get together and chat, have a movie night, or play games without risking being in a closed room together.

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

WhatsApp? Part 5. (Steve Rogers x reader)

Description: You’ve never been lucky with guys. You just wanted to catch someone’s eye, to be loved. One day, that’s about to turn completely - with one fake, completely imagined number a guy gave you

A/N: I am a little shit for this tbh. But shush.

Warnings: FIRST ACTUAL SIGN OF FLIRTING. 

Tagging: @missdictatorme @songforhema

Read the rest and don't be scared bcs of my crazy ass:  Part One  Part Two  Part three  Part four

Series master list if you love to read series in order like me :) (I got u, boo):  H E R E

You had coma while you slept. Not like an actual coma - but you were totally dead when you fell asleep at half-past one a.m. You were done for - three and a half hours past your bedtime, charmed by some mysterious man and worried the hell out for that poor boy who snored all over the place.

Thank God May was woken up and that she had lived nearer to the office than you do. Because you could wake up later than you usually did. The traffic wasn't so bad in this part of Queens either.

"Pancakes are on the table, sleepyhead. Now wake the hell up." - She giggled when you just hummed into your pillow, refusing to wake the fuck up. You fell asleep at one a.m. for god's sake. This was some torturing and you were sure of it.

"I think I need to take a day off. I'm dead. I'm more dead than Peter was yesterday." - You mumbled into the pillow, smelling the delicious pancakes.

"I'm feeling ok now, Y/N." - A young voice rang through the living room. You felt dizzy, yet you take your head off the small pillow you've slept on. Peter, who's body most likely had the last hurrah before death yesterday, was sitting at the table, grinning at you widely. - "You're the dead elephant in the room right now."

He had his sweater on, his hair was super messy and he looked tired as hell. But he was alive per se.

"I will recall what I just thought in my head before a second." - You sat, yawned out loud like a lion on savanna at the midday and turned your head to him. You looked tired but really, really happy. That made him look happy as well. - "Because you're having your last hurray before your death. Guess the joke's on you, zombie-kiddo."

Peter knew you were just messing with him. You two did it all the time - friendly beefs and arguments about everything - the most of them happened after you've seen the last sci-fi movie in local cinema (you were his adult company to the movies he and his super best pal couldn't go alone to and you knew that even if Pete will grow up or find a gf, this will be a part of your life that's not going to change.)

"I'm mentally more mature than you are. At least I know how to get my crush better without panicking and talking to a fifteen-year-old boy. I know better than you." - Pete was teasing the hell out of you. - "Anyway, how did it even go?" - He wiggled his eyebrows at you, eating the pancake slowly.

"Well if you didn't come practically walking dead into our office yesterday, I would tell you... That we moved from strangers to friends with Steve." - You served yourself a pancake with some syrup on it. You sometimes slept over at their place, May always being the chef. And her pancakes? Dear lord. That was the best fucking thing ever. Period.

"He texted her six of those worried messages when she forgot her phone at the office." - May abrupted the conversation without taking her eyes off her newspaper. - “I think we all can consider that as something.” - She laughed a bit when you hissed in her direction. 

“Choose your side here May!” - You laughed and heard your phone vibrating at the small table in front of the TV, plugged into the charger as you left it before you fell asleep. You smiled and saw Peter grinning at you under the palm that covered his mouth. 

--- 

You couldn't even believe how fast can a month go around. You didn't even notice - you worked from nine to five at the charity, enjoying your time with your girl, sometimes you even hang out. Not too often tho, because you loved when you just curled in your favorite PJs, watching a movie and letting Steve make you laugh. (Don't worry, Steve’s unintentional dumbness made Sam laugh a lot as well.)

You two were basically internet besties. Steve read almost everything that happened you during the day (he found your life so calm and nice, he almost got jealous at you) and he even shared some details from his day-to-day life with you as well. He was usually surrounded by his friends - some name called Sam, one named Bucky and a woman whose name was apparently Natasha. They seemed to be an extra funny squad from what Steve had told you. 

Peter got really better after he almost stressed you out at the hospital. The fevers didn't come back, he didn't vomit since then and that biting on his wrist disappeared as well. He survived that and you were nothing but happy for him.

You even bought a hella good and hella cheap costumes for your performance at that Stark Charity Evening. You had a long meeting about what choreography you will actually do, but then Kat, the biggest sex bomb at your office stood up. 

“I think we should do Candyman choreography. It's thematic and it's sexy. And we are sexy, isn't that right, Val?” - She encouraged you. She was a feminist and May was too energetic and too much of a leader, she liked that idea immediately. 

“Ladies, that's it. We can be sexy but not slutty female officers. I like it. Yeah. We can get some costumes like a uniform tux and a pencil skirt...” - May tried to get you a vision of her idea. You honestly thought it is a bit stupid - Christina was super slutty in that clip. May was not really that type of a gal - but she would be up for it if is PG-13. 

“But you know, we can show some skin off.”- Deena took off where May started, looking at everyone. - “Jesus May, I didn't say we will make it a lesbian show-off strip tease even tho I know that Val would've loved it.” - She winked at Valerie and she just laughed. - “I mean, we can have those shirts tied around our back and some short under the uniforms. Like that girl who is showing her biceps off and is like a mechanic? Abby knows what I'm talking about, she has that posted in front of her for two years now.” 

“So...” - Suzie looked at everyone. - “We will start off as officers but then we will strip the formality off and show the men that we can take care of ourselves.” - She continued. Kat just seemed to be proud of that idea. And to be honest, when it would be like that, you were up for some Candyman as well. - “It will be a nice nod to the marinas and if we will have a good choreography, we can raise more money. Especially from the men. And that is our goal.”

“Okay girls. We have ourselves a plan. Now the choreography is in your hands and costumes are the things that I will take care of.” - You smiled shyly. You were off to a good start.

But you know, everything has to stop eventually. 

Steve: I will be off the country for the next fourteen days and maybe more because of my work. I'm really, really sorry. 

That hit you completely unprepared. You almost forgot about that thing with Steve’s job... Everything was just too dreamy to think about that mans job.  You bit your bottom lip, looking around. You felt like everyone in the office could feel your mood shift even if nobody paid you any attention. But you tried to play it off as a joke - you were friends after all. 

Y/N: As long as you will send me a postcard and you'll miss me out there, I think I'll make it somehow. 

You put your phone on your desk and looked at the computer with a blank stare. You knew him an only month and a half - you didn't know where he lives, what does he look like or how does his voice sound like, but that man just had some magic in his texts.

You wished that you were joking when you said it yourself, but he really had some magic in him. Two weeks without him? You will miss him badly. A month? You will go crazy in no time. 

Steve: That can be arranged. :)

A gentleman at all costs, you smiled and closed your eyes for a while. Maybe it was good that you will take a short break from each other. You will be more looking forward to his kind words. Even more, you did now. Which sound impossible, but it may be right. 

Y/N: Which one of the things we are talking about? I don't want to make any high hopes, handsome. 

You joked and looked back at the stuff you were working on. It looked good - it was a document about the usage of food and the clothes you gathered from the locals. There was one big pre-fall evening where you will be giving the thing to the homeless people and you needed to document how many things you had actually. You were almost done so a little dispersion from Steve was not a bad thing.

Steve: I thought we are talking about both of the things you wrote to me. Especially about the second one. 

Everything in you froze for a sec. Did he really... Did he really just flirted with you? And was it you or it was the most fascinating and smooth thing someone ever did around you? You half-hissed and half-laughed at that, suddenly being happy as hell. Wow. 

Y/N: So you would miss me?

No need to be overreacting. Maybe he is just messing with you - yeah. This man here sometimes got you good, once or twice, but it didn't happen too often. Which was kind of a bummer? He was so funny at times.

Steve: Do you even need to ask about that? Of course, I will. 

And that was it. You felt like screaming and jumping so high you will touch the clouds. Steve Rogers, the man who made you laugh with his shyness and cuteness had definitely told you that he will miss you. It almost felt like a first I love you. But you didn't want to get too over yourself. 

“I know that victory dance you're performing now.” - Suzie, the elegant tall blonde suddenly appeared at your desk with other papers with you. - “This man is actually doing a thing to you, do you know that? It's lovely to see.” - She said quietly as she let you off. 

The squad you belonged in had almost the most stereotypical friends in it - May definitely was the Mom one, there was no point in denying that. Deena was a girl full of energy and love for life, the paries felt wilder with her in it. She was the energetic one, still listening to Wannabe by The Spice Girls or Fancy by Iggy Azalea. Suzie felt like the quiet one, but she was just reserved and well mannered - she was somehow related to some fancy monarchy people or what. And you were the wallflower - everyone told you things and you just kept them a secret. Also, you were the hanging out friend. Things were much more enjoyable and funnier with you around.

So yeah. That was typical Suzie. She noticed, told you - but she was really formal and reserved, just giving you a shy smile. If Deena found you in this state, she would remind you every three to five seconds about your dreamy face. You should be grateful to Suzie for waking you up to this gently.

Y/N: I will miss you too. 

And it was out. Just like that, you admitted you will miss him. And you thought like everything just started with small, five- worded sentence.

---

Steve looked at his phone with a frown, watching your conversation for a little while. You weren't exactly making it easier for him to leave America and go to Russia. Most likely a whole month without you. He inhaled deeply. 

Both of you got used to each other's virtual presence so much it felt like the day will not be complete without the other one in it. Was it the feeling Clint told him about? The one when he had to leave Laura and his kids? It must've been something fairly similar, but on a smaller scale.

And you will miss him as well. Damn it, weren't you a sweetheart?

“Are we ready to take off today or should we call it off?” - Natasha called at him from inside of the Quinjet, looking like a walking hair product commercial. She was truly beautiful, but not for Steve, he had someone else on his mind. She was beautiful for Sam tho and he didn't hesitate to tell her, but she always rolled her eyes and told him to bugger off.

“Let him be, he has to say goodbye to his online girlfriend.” - Sam answered Natasha in a cocky voice, patting Steve’s back. At that point, Sam declared you like Steve’s girl at every actual chance he got his hands on. 

Bucky was more calmed and down to earth about that. He knew you make Steve smile and that you charmed him with your points and kindness. But there was a lot of more far ahead of you two - to meet up, try if your chemistry actually works in person and so on. But that didn't make him stop from making dumb jokes about you two from time to time. But he was not as persistent as Sam. 

“Shut up birdbrain.” - Bucky hushed him as he prepared his things inside the Quinjet next to Nat. - “You are just jealous because no girl has an actual interest in you. That is a point.” 

“I wonder why I wonder how...” - Natasha sang quietly and made Bucky chuckle. 

“It is a real mystery. We should call Scooby-Doo. Aren’t you fellas? You know, you're both animals and...” - Bucky shrugged his shoulders and just continued in teaming up with Natasha against Sam. They were a strong team, quite an enforcement commando used against Sam. Also, Bucky was a sucker for Scooby-Doo. He loved Velma especially.

“The girl from the bistro would tell you different, old man.” - Sam sat next to them, watching Steve with a slight smile. He was proud of him. He didn't fuck up and it was almost two months since this WhatsApp thing started. 

“She smiled at you and laughed at your jokes because she knew you will give her a bigger tip.” - Nat zipped Sam off before he could even start about that Tessa girl from the place they had lunch in. - “Because no one would laugh at your jokes willingly.” 

Bucky gave her a high five. - “Shots fired.” 

Steve: I'll call you when I'm back. And that's a promise. 

Steve: I really need to go, my friends are getting impatient and they are behaving like literal children. I need to take care of them. Be safe, Y/N. Okay?

He wrote quickly and followed his friends, knowing that he will hear your voice when he gets back. And that was a thing worth of speeding the mission up. Or at least doing everything it takes for that.

[this-lioness]

Another bullshit update on life in general

Work has kept me busy, and I’ve been trying to get more done creatively and around the house, as well.

This was the first weekend in awhile I didn’t do any (or much) meal prep, since we had enough in the freezer to last us for all the dinners this week, and even a few lunches for Marc.  I made a dozen eggs, cut up and roasted almost 5 lbs of potatoes, and called it a day.

I cancelled the physical therapist, because between work, gym, housekeeping and trying to do something other than being a machine I did not have time for an additional two rounds of exercises every single day.  We were getting up at 5 AM, leaving for work at 6:30 AM, leaving work for home at 5 PM, getting home from the gym around 7, then eating for a half hour.  It was not going to happen.

We ended up cancelling the gym membership, because -- as much as we want to go -- we are just too tired and hungry after an hour-long commute to be like, “Yay, let’s do something tedious and exhausting for a half hour!”

The long term goal was to cancel the membership anyway, however.  I told Marc I want us to concentrate on finishing the sheetrock in the former “cat room” this coming weekend so that we actually use it for its intended purpose, which was exercise.  I have that barre I bought last year that I haven’t had time or room to use even once, and the treadmill and hand weights is just sitting and collecting dust.  So anyway, that’s the plan for next weekend.

We will also be fostering two cats in the next couple weeks, and trying to find them a home.  Long story short we met an artist at one of the galleries downtown, very nice guy, and his friend or nephew or I forget has recently knocked up his girlfriend and decided, “Well, we need to move and get rid of the cats I guess!”

So they’re two year-old sisters, and he wants them to stay together, which is fine.  Like Rosie, they actually look very young, like maybe only 5 months old.  They have never been to the vet in their life, so no shots, and neither of them are fixed, which means it will be on us to take care of all that before they get adopted out.  I’m sure he’s going to be a great Dad [/sarcasm].

When Marc found out that the cats needed a full vet workup, including spay, he was initially resistant due to the cost.  I said okay, if you’re not comfortable with it you’re not comfortable with it, and went upstairs to investigate our options.  The Walmart just opened up a “Vet IQ” clinic that does basic veterinary care, and we can utilize a local spay clinic for about $50 per cat, so on that end alone we’d be shelling out less than $300 (there’s always food and litter, of course).

After awhile Marc came up and was like, “I think I was a little hasty, I’m sure we can make it work.” After I told him the anticipated costs he was much more into it, so that’s good.  Hopefully we won’t have any trouble finding a home for them.

Rosie is doing well at feeding time in her crate!  It has not stopped her from being an absolute maniac spaz about food, but there is almost no growling at all while she eats now.  She goes in her crate, Marc covers it up with a towel, and she eats with seemingly less hysterical anxiety.  I’ll call it a tentative win.

Rosie, by the way, loves Bones. Bones can usually take her or leave her, although his tolerance level is much higher when she’s not acting the spaz, although you see moments of affection for her as well.  She greets him with a nice long body rub when they cross paths, and yesterday Marc caught him grooming her head.  It does my heart good.

At the risk of jinxing myself, I’ve been doing much better at bowling for the past few weeks!  I did decently at league on Friday, and when we went for our Sunday practice I had a series of something like 145, 106 and 140.  Considering I was lucky to break 100 a couple months ago I’m feeling very encouraged.

What has worked for me, honestly, is throwing out a lot of convention wisdom.  Marc has always been very patient with me, explaining game theory and approach and all that, but no matter how much I tried to put it all together it just wasn’t working.  And I was really, really trying.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was chatting with someone about Dyscalculia, and did a bit more casual reading about it.  I was reminded that it often causes issues with spatial awareness, something I can absolutely vouch for (I actually suspect it’s part of what’s caused me to have such persistent problems with perspective and anatomy over the years, although that’s a discussion for another time.)

So I started keeping that in mind when we play: I used the techniques that I knew were helpful, but in any aspect where I was supposed to do one thing, but consistently got unexpected and problematic results, I tried to go more by “feel”.

It’s hard to explain why this works, but it has so far.  Basically, I had to throw out the notion of bowling at “angles”, and became more of a straight-shooter, keeping in mind that my ball does have a tendency to hook left.  I got something like 3 or 4 strikes in one game on Friday!

Which is not to say that I’m suddenly a good bowler, because I’m not, but I’m better, which is what I wanted.  What’s annoying is when (admittedly well-meaning) people are like, “Here’s what you’re doing wrong!” and try to teach me about techniques which I already know, but which just don’t work for me.

This happened two weeks ago I think, and I’m sure the lady meant well, but she also was ignoring me when I said multiple fucking times, “I understand, but I have spatial awareness problems, that doesn’t work for me.”

Like, repeating something at me over and over is not going to make it any more true.  I hear what you’re saying, you’re just wrong.

So in other news I finished two more of the Mori Girl Cats, and that dumb little werewolf thing that was strictly for my own amusement.  (Someone was like, “That would make a great t-shirt,” and haha, I’m not fucking falling for that one again.)  I also organized the office / computer area of the Geek Room, we stashed away the last of the convention stuff, and it feels much more clean and open and neat.  A place I actually want to hang out, and not anxiously work while avoiding the pile of shit sitting behind me!

Last night I also installed Sims 3 and treated myself to a handful of expansion and “stuff” packs.  I only had enough time to create one Sim last night, but I already look forward to giving him a cold.

…*cough*...

Unrelated, but I meant to talk about something that happened last Wednesday, when I was out running my Mom around to her appointments and whatnot.

So… for anyone who didn’t follow me on Facebook or my old Tumblr, the short version is that my Mom and I have a very long and complicated history. She was not a very good mother, she is a textbook covert narcissist.  She was an alcoholic for many, many years which caused serious and life-altering problems for me as a teenager and young adult, and after she got sober she transitioned to a prescription drug addiction which further deteriorated our already tenuous and fraught relationship, and landed both her and my stepfather in financial ruin.

About a year and a half ago, to help save them from the road to homelessness, we helped them sell their old house and moved them to Bucks County to live about 10 minutes from us, in a mobile home park.  We helped them get it fixed up, we help with maintenance, running errands, etc.  It’s a very cute little house, and although it took some time I think they see that now, and that their lives are better off.

When they first moved up here my mother was still on prescription drugs, but she very quickly found that it was impossible to find a new doctor to continue prescribing her the same pharmaceutical cocktails she wanted.  And boy did she fucking try. She’s already changed doctors at least three or four times since moving here, whipping out her favorite refrain of “I don’t think this doctor knows what they’re talking about!” every time they’re like, “Yeah, you don’t need to be on a steady stream of opiates.”

Eventually the lack of drugs caught up with her, the withdrawal passed, and for the past year or so she and I have actually gotten along okay.  She is still, and always will be, a difficult person, and I worry about whether or not she’ll find a doctor to start filling prescriptions again, but until then things are… okayish.

Anyway, that’s the long back story.

Back when they were still living at their old house, Marc and I would periodically go to visit them.  My Mom was always drugged out of her gourd, so I fucking hated going, but I had to do my duty, and she made every excuse imagineable for why she couldn’t come visit us.  So once a month we’d pack up, trek over to her house, order take-out, hang out for a while, then go back home again.

Except my Mother would do this thing where, after the food arrived, she would put the plates out, and then she would continue to gather plates and reorganize the kitchen while everyone was sitting down, serving themselves and eating.  

Like, the food would be on the table, we’d all be halfway through our meals and well on our way to being done, and my Mom would still be in the kitchen sorting around in the drawers for a mystery spoon or bowl that she needed, then finding it, washing it out, drying it, realizing it was the wrong one, putting it away, etc.

Eventually she would come out while everyone else was finishing up, serve herself a tablespoon of food, eat half, and then talk about how full she was.

For a while we would be like, “Mom… everyone is eating. We have everything we need. We literally don’t need anything else. Just come in and eat,” and she would ignore us.  Eventually I just stopped caring, and let her do her thing while the rest of us ate.  The sooner we finished the sooner we could leave.

I don’t know how else to describe her behavior apart from manic.  Like, when it was time to order, if I asked her for a menu, she would bring me the menu, and for fifteen minutes after I had called to place the order she would still be rooting through the drawers looking for more / other menus.  She would get herself so worked up that sometimes while we were sitting downstairs hanging out she’d have to go up and be sick.

All this just to give you a sense of what she used to be like.

Anyway.  I’m driving her home from an appointment on Wednesday, and she’s commenting how all of us just naturally turn into their mothers as we get older, even though we don’t want to.  In that I stayed dead silent through this observation I think she recognized that I disagreed.  So then she moved on to how different some daughters are from their mothers, especially in the kitchen.

And she said to me, “Like when I cook, I have to clean as I go along, I can’t just put everything in the sink until later.  Remember when you used to come over to eat, and you’d say to me, ‘Mom, come and eat, the food is ready!’ and I’d be so busy cleaning up that I wouldn’t even realize!”

And I’m like, “....”

Because that’s not what happened.  That’s not even fucking remotely what happened.  So she has spun the reality where she is an out-of-control manic drug addict and spun it into a funny story about how she’s such a neat freak that she doesn’t realize it’s time to eat.

I was sorely tempted to correct her, but at the last second realized it wouldn’t make a difference either way.  She is never going to look back on her behavior with any kind of clarity, and trying to force her to do so would just make the day end on a sour note.  If she wants to live in delusion, that’s on her.  I can tolerate it, but I’m certainly not going to feed into it by saying something like, “Yes, that’s precisely how it happened.”

She’ll have to learn to interpret the silence on her own.

Anyway, I guess that’s it.  Greatly looking forward to getting home and having a nice night on the couch, or maybe playing Sims some more.  I may even make some tea.

I hope all of you are doing well <3

[wilthebean]

I use the holidays...

as a time to step out of my usual routines. I don’t think about the second bottle of wine I’m ordering. The third slice of my mom's sweet potato pie I'm about to shovel down my throat, the pack of Camel Lights that will eventually end up in my purse. All my pseudo secret bad habits are out in the open until January 1st. I always found this time a year a bit overwhelming, so doing things that I considered out of control felt comforting. I’m trash with no one to tell me “no.” I reel myself back in when “I” see fit. But something felt different this year.

It’s hard for me to describe my 2019. If I had to describe it in one word that word would be “crying.” An activity that I like to avoid at all costs. I cried alone in my bedroom after yelling at my ex-boyfriend. I cried while walking to a second 4th of July party because the first party had my ex-bf there...with his new girlfriend. I cried in New Orleans in front of Michelle Obama as she spoke about self-worth. I cried alone in my hotel room in Miami during a work trip, I was a battling sickness and was completely overwhelmed but didn’t want anyone to know. I cried in a bar bathroom right before I hosted one of my first comedy nights because I thought the night would be a failure. I slightly cried on the subway after I convinced myself I ruined my chances with the first guy I genuinely liked after my ex. I thought I was ready for a new adventure. I was wrong. These moments good or bad chipped at me in a way that was extremely uncomfortable. I spent the better half of my 30′s cultivating my world, my system, and most importantly my emotions. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing was working. 

So now we have the holidays and emotionally I was a wreck. I stepped the fuck out of my routines with reckless abandonment and was determined to end 2019 numb. Any food, liquor, and occasional drug that was available to me I would consume.  I saw no reason to “reel it in” or “work on myself.” I was tired. Friday night I went out and I’m sure I had a blast but don’t remember much of it. I woke up Saturday morning with my stomach in knots and my head pounding. I stumbled out of bed and saw the trail of clothes/shoes that started from my bedroom to the bathroom. There was dried vomit in my sink. I don’t remember throwing up. I finally saw myself in the mirror only to see smeared eyeliner and lipstick on my face. I always wash my face right before I go to bed. That bothered me the most. 

It dawned on me that I had appointments in the early afternoon. I had a therapy session downtown and then my cleaning lady was coming right after. I crawled into the shower, brushed my teeth, put on my black hoodie, and called an uber. Every turn and bump from the car made feel sick. I was relieved to get some fresh air after getting out of the car. The security guard asked me “Yo..you good?” as he took my ID so I can enter the building. “Yeah, I’m good. Just not a morning person.” as I tried to muster a fake smile. “He smirked and said...it’s 1pm.” 

My therapist was in the bathroom while I was buzzing the door to gain entrance to her office. She was probably smoking a cigarette but didn’t want to tell me. I could smell it on her when she greeted me at the door. The smell made my stomach turn. I got to her office and I could immediately smell the combination of Frebreeze, a portable heater, and cigarette smoke. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to last in her office. She wanted to start the session asking me about the holidays and how I spent it. All I could think about was if I didn’t get fresh air in 2 minutes I was going to throw up all over her couch. I squirmed and rubbed one side of my temple as I described Christmas morning at my sister's house. I felt beads of sweat on my forehead. All I needed to do was survive 15 more minutes, then I can run out of the building and puke somewhere. She stopped midway of the session and asked was I okay. That I seemed preoccupied and distant. Then out of nowhere, I cried. Through my tears, I said, “I can’t take this anymore..this is all too much!” She thought I was having an anxiety attack, I just wanted to leave the smelly room. I started to apologize for my random outburst but she insisted there was nothing for me to be sorry about. Those emotions, whatever they were would eventually go away, that I have to let them run its course. I can’t control how I feel but any bad feelings won’t seal my faint or determine my worth. That was nice of her to say, even though what I really wanted was fresh air.

After my therapy session, I managed to walk myself to a local coffee shop without vomiting all over myself and got home just in time to let in the cleaning lady. I laid in bed with a hot towel on my face the majority of her stay, until she kicked me out to clean my bedroom. By 5pm I started to feel better. 

I guess my reckless abandonment finally caught up with me, but I didn’t mind that the last time I cried in 2019 was because I was severely hungover at my therapist's office. In fact, I thought it was a bit funny. It’s impossible to be numb without facing consequences. I should’ve just told her the truth, told her what was really going on with me. 

And there you have it. I think I discovered my life lesson.

2019 I was hungover and didn’t tell a single soul, so for that, I suffered.  

2020 I need to start asking folks to open up the god damn window.

[bestforeignjobs-blog]

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