#and i am going to live a virtual summer like only a girl who grew up in 2008 could

[daydreamlng]

.

[eyesaremosaics]

Woke from feverish dreams of reconciliation. This keeps happening. Dreaming of this person from my past. The joy that fills my heart when I see her face. The light and laughter between us, the way it used to be. The horror that floods to the tips of my extremities… when I wake in this strange room… knowing it was only a dream. No such thing has taken place, not likely that it ever will.

My dreams haunt me these days. Regrets, recriminations. Why does this person keep cropping up in my subconscious? I don’t think of them everyday, though things do often remind me of them. When it does, a wistful sadness comes over me. I shake it off and keep going. If I think too long on it, this strangulated panic claws up my throat. The emptiness that’s left. A despair, a nothingness. A vacuum that was co-created.

It must be that I am getting older. Fall is coming, as is my birthday. My birthday often falls on the equinox. The first day of autumn. The death of summer is always a bittersweet time. Endings. Having had no time to myself for months and months… I suppose there is a cesspool swirling in my subconscious.

I have difficulty making and keeping female friends. It started in 2016, but now it’s virtually impossible. Not to say that I don’t have female friends—I do… but they are not close. Even my supposed “best friend” since childhood is estranged from me now.

That’s another tragic story.

There are no girls for me to go to brunch with. The few I try to maintain relationships with, I don’t connect with on a deep soul level the way I did with her. They are empty distractions from my deep loneliness. I am always lonely, even with people. Loneliness is not really being alone, it’s constantly being around people who don’t understand you.

Even my partner, whom I love very dearly… I don’t feel I can be fully myself with all the time. I can’t go into deep psychological speculation with him, it makes him uncomfortable. He’s a Taurus, and though I can discuss nerdy interests with him that I can’t talk with anyone else about, along with philosophy, art, history… deep dives into our own psyche is not something he finds enjoyable. He often runs from his own shadow. The cast is long (as is mine) but he finds sanctuary in light and humor.

It works because he has taught me to be more lighthearted. Less serious. Less intense. I am much more palatable than I used to be. Yet… I am still longing to have someone to connect deeply with on a spiritual and emotional level. So strange… I used to have such a vast social circle. I had ride or die girlfriends—more than I could count. One by one they all betrayed me in small ways, either that or we grew apart… or they moved away and gradually we lost contact.

I was thinking about my wedding (my partner hasn’t asked me yet, but we talk about getting married pretty seriously all the time) I couldn’t think of any girls to be my bridesmaids. I can’t think of a maid of honor. That broke my heart and made me really sad.

My girls from high school—I only talk to L_____. We see each other a couple times a year. We love each other, she’ll definitely be one of my bridesmaids, but we don’t talk regularly. I wish we saw each other more often, but she lives in a different city.

My friends T___ and E___ would be bridesmaids. They were my best girl friends from 2017-2019. They both moved away. One to LA the other to Seattle. They were my artsy model/photographer friends. We used to go vintage shopping, to tiki bars… to hipster parties and concerts. So many Chelsea Wolfe shows. I’ve been so lonely since they moved away. I can always talk to them about deep things, but I end up feeling like a bother, I don’t know why. So I don’t reach out as often as I should.

My friend V______ would be a bridesmaid. She has been a true blue friend since high school actually, though we have grown apart a bit the last few years. She became very fanatical, and some of her conspiracy theories cause contention between us. Strange how politics can damage connection the way they do.

That’s pretty much it. My sister and my sister in law would be bridesmaids. But who would be my maid of honor? I have no female best friend anymore. I guess one of my gay boys will have to be my maid of honor lol.

My best friend since high school… was very obviously toxic to everyone but myself. Out of loyalty and devotion I stuck by her through her severe alcohol addiction and self destructive behavior. Our friendship ended quite dramatically. She had this abusive, mooch of a boyfriend who refused to admit to anyone that he was dating her—so toxic. I always hated this fool, and often chewed him out on her behalf. Well. In 2019 a lot of trauma took place.

The friend I dreamt about earlier in this entry, she came back around for closure. I sincerely regret that I did not tell her “we should try this in a few more years”, it had already been 4 years since we last saw each other at that time, but it wasn’t enough. I was still in my dark night of the soul. I was deeply wounded, unhappy, angry and reactive. I did not show up in that conversation the way I wanted to. I was nervous, so I drank too much, and got very emotional and angry. Everything I said, was how I felt, but you know how it is when you are angry. It’s hard to hold back.

Not only that, but my first love, and one of my best friends was dying in the hospital as this meeting took place, and I was not in a good place to have a serious or pleasant conversation. I wish I had politely declined, and tried again some other time. I would have crafted my words more carefully, and I certainly wouldn’t have drank that much.

After that fiasco, I tried to apologize more than once but was met with silence. Silence is also an answer. Though I am a very different person now, and know our conversation would be much more healing were we to have it today, I won’t bother reaching out again to be rejected like that. Some things are just over, much as you might not want them to be. Even though she said the door is never closed, it certainly feels that way now.

I could beat myself up for the person I was, which I did do for years, but that helps nothing. All I can do is be different, and continue to be different and improve everyday, but I digress.

Back to my high school friend. Days after meeting with this other person. It was my best friend from high schools birthday. It was the 4th of July. We went out to watch fireworks. Her “boyfriend” made her a cake, seemed to be treating her better, so I tolerated him. I was broken up with my then boyfriend 18 years my senior, who I had a tumultuous relationship with.

Michael was dying in hospital. He wouldn’t let me come see him. Despite my pleading. I was falling apart at the seams. So many holes torn through me, I was practically transparent.

My girlfriend from high school is a nurse at a prison, she worked nights, and that night—her birthday—she had to work starting at 10pm. We had all been drinking all day. I had the intention of getting very drunk. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore. Historically I went to her house, where the two of us both got drunk, cried, and fell asleep together. This was a ritual. I asked her if her boyfriend was going home, I didn’t feel comfortable with him staying in the house without her there. She said yes, he would be leaving.

I was being nice to him that day, because he was treating my friend better. I was trying for her sake to be civil for her birthday. He wanted to watch stranger things. I said okay, but then he would go home. I fell asleep in the chair, 5 minutes into it. He was belligerently drunk. He kept pointing and laughing at me saying I was slurring my words. I told him I was going upstairs to bed, I bid him goodnight and went in her bedroom and closed the door.

I was prodded awake by her boyfriend. Asking if I was sleeping. Groggily I looked over, still very drunk. He handed me more beer. I told him I didn’t want it, but he insisted. I took a sip out of politeness but put it down. I was already very drunk. He kept urging me to drink more. He started playing guitar for me, which was weird. He played the Beatles, which I sang along to. Then he leapt on top of me and tried to kiss me. I distinctly remember turning my face away and kept moving it to the side as he continued to try and kiss me.

It was horrifying. He began touching me all over and trying to kiss me. I remember trying to wriggle free, but I was blacking in and out from how drunk I was. I woke up the next morning, with no clothes on, and a hickey on my neck. Horrified, I began to scream and cry. He was nowhere to be found. My body didn’t feel violated—well not fully. I’ve been raped before, and you can feel it the next day… so I don’t think that happened, but something definitely did.

At first I blamed myself, I thought I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. I was so upset as I left that I almost crashed the car. I went to my grandmothers, because I needed to feel safe. I confused in her what happened, blamed it all on myself, said what a horrible person I was.

Then she told me: “Megan, I’m sorry to tell you this honey, but you were assaulted. You didn’t do this. You told him goodnight, you went to bed, and he followed you upstairs when he was supposed to leave… poked you awake, gave you more alcohol, and jumped on you when you were blacking out. You didn’t do this Megan. He is a predator.”

She advised me not to tell my friend. She said it would destroy our relationship. I knew I had to tell her, but two days later—Michael died. I was terrified to lose her as well as him. To lose all three of my best friends in one fell swoop. My heart just couldn’t take it. I did eventually tell her, but it took months… the long parade to the graveyard. The wake, the funeral, the memorial party… then the burial. It all passed by in a whirlwind of color. Dripping black oil from my heart, how heavy my limbs felt. Like lead.

Rewind to the day after the assault: My ex had come back into my life, I told him all that was going on. I was always honest with him. He listened and was very understanding. It was his birthday. We went to a carnival. That morning before I drove to alameda, people were sending me texts. “Megan, I’m so sorry”

STOP! Nothings happened! Nothing has happened yet!

“But I heard it won’t be long now…”

STOP! It’s not true!

I turned my phone off. I heard his heart and that terrible rhythm beating in my head like a drum.

I turned off my phone. I couldn’t deal. It’s not true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.

As I drove fast on the highway, a song that Michael put on a mixed CD for me when I was 16… played randomly in the shuffle. It was “under the Milky Way tonight”

“Sometimes, when this place gets kind of empty

Sound of their breath fades with the light

I think about the loveless fascination

Under the Milky Way tonight”

I burst into tears. He was gone. I felt him go. Like a candle blowing out in the wind—I felt his life extinguish. It was in that moment, that the world became a lot less interesting. Still refusing to believe my own intuition, I collapsed into my exes house. He asked what was wrong. All I could say was that something terrible has happened. He scooped me up and took me to bed.

We had sex, and I remember it being very passionate and intense, yet my soul was swirling in the air. Teeming with the fog, trying to grasp into the ether to wrench Michael back from the other side. This can’t be. It just can’t be. It’s not true. You fucking jerk, you bastard! How can you leave me all alone here in this nowhere without you!

I was crying. In the arms of another man. He enveloped me, yet I felt so far away. No longer able to feel my body. I slinked to the bathroom afterwards to wash myself. Staring into my hollow eyes, I told him. “Let’s go to the carnival”

We drove an hour, went to the alameda county fair. My phone was off the whole day. I drank, took drugs probably. Had a good time with my ex. Hours went by. The sun began to bleed into the horizon, and the darkness was pulled over us like a velvet blanket. The lights came on, and the carnival lit up like a switch board.

My ex had to use the bathroom. I was in line for a ride. Unable to resist the morbid curiosity any longer, I turned my phone on. There in my messages, was one from Christina (one of Micheal’s exes, his business partner and land lady). “I’m so sorry. We lost him this morning”

In shock, time seemed to stop. Like that scene in Big Fish with the popcorn frozen in mid air, yet instead of being drawn in by something beautiful… the horror of her words passed through me like a ghost. The time stamp in her message was the same time that song had come on in my car.

“Ma’am? Are you getting on,” the ride attendant was gesturing for me to get on the ride. I seemed to drift soundlessly into the compartment. I was alone. My ex had not returned yet. The attendant jerked the locks, and belted me into place. Like a zombie I sat there all slack jawed. The ride began like a centrifuge. It battered my bones against the metal sides, I felt nothing. No euphoria, more like someone was senselessly beating me.

When I got off the ride, my ex had reappeared at the exit. He said I looked a fright. What was wrong? I said flatly “Michael’s dead.”

Then the truth finally dawned on me, saying it aloud had made it real. In one terrifying moment, reality tumbled in on me like a ton of bricks, and I collapsed to my knees and screamed to the sky. It was one of those mournful, strangulated cries that is horrible to hear. Like a mother who lost a child.

My ex tried to get me to my feet, but I was hysterical. Beside myself with grief. We went on a few more rides after I managed to calm down. The rest of the night is a blur. I drove us home. I did yoga. We went to bed. I knew Michael would come visit me that night, I just knew he would.

That night I went to sleep. I was in Oakland, in his old Victorian house. Wandering the halls, calling out his name. It was all dark. None of his roommates were home. He didn’t answer.

Finally I came to his room. On the floor was a note… like one of the notes we used to pass in high school…. When I was so deeply in love with him. I opened the note, and suddenly—a light hit my face. I felt his presence all around me like warm water. Yet it pierced right through to my very soul. Shining through me. I heard his voice, he said: “thank you for loving me. Thank you for wanting to be there. Thank you for taking the risk to be intimate with me, that really meant a lot to me. I just wanted your first time, to be with someone who cared about you.”

And then I woke up.

Michael was born with HIV, it’s a long story. Basically I gave my virginity to him when I was 18. Obviously we were safe, I never got sick from him. He had agreed to do it, because I was starting my self destructive existence with drugs and alcohol in response to his rejection of me. He felt responsible. I know he did. He didn’t want some drugged out loser to take my innocence away, he wanted it to be someone who cared for me. It makes me cry every time I think about it. I cry writing these words now.

I am many things, but malicious or inherently cruel is not one of them. Despite some spurned lovers opinions, that is the truth. I know myself, and I know I have a good heart. No matter how fucked up I am or what awful mistakes I’ve made—I never meant to hurt anyone. Michael knew this about me, and I knew it about him. Believe me—he was not an easy person to love. Yet you just couldn’t help it. He was truly special. We were cut from the same cloth, I know he felt the same.

We understood each other so well, we didn’t even need to talk to communicate. In the days he was dying in the hospital I wrote him a text (when he could still text) and said:

“I love you Michael. I always have. No matter what form it took over all these years. You are a part of me, and nothing will ever change that.”

“Wish I knew what you were looking for

Might have known what you would find

Wish I knew what you were looking for

Might have known what you would find”

The song still rings clear. All those nights we lay together, tangling our fingers in each other’s hair. Holding on to each other, as though we feared we would fall away into oblivion should we let each other go.

“And it's something quite peculiar

Something shimmering and white

Leads you here, despite your destination

Under the Milky Way tonight”

I’m not sure what this is supposed to mean, or why I felt the need to write all this down this morning. Waking up with that empty feeling…Seeing her smiling face, even if I never see it again. I know. The love we had, in the time we had it. Was just as real, and just as special as what I had with Michael. And just as she said, in one of her long ago farewell letters. “I know I will never find a friendship like that again. There will be no replacement. I won’t search for it, because I know it doesn’t exist.”

[c-is-for-circinate]

It’s New Years’ Eve, and for once, my dash isn’t full of the sorts of fun-silly-memey end-of-year posts celebrating the past 365 days.  Which is fair.  We all know what this year has been, and for all the hoped-for relief that it’s finally over, we all know it’s going to keep being hard for a while yet into the next one.

But there have been so many little moments this year, too.  So.  A list:

In the courtyard of my apartment building in the middle of Chicago, in a part of the city where trees don’t get planted on the sidewalks, there are two tall trees, taller than the three-story roof of the building, like trees should be.  This spring, one of my neighbors (and I will never know who, because I have met none of my neighbors in person) left a package of sidewalk chalk on the concrete path in the middle of the courtyard, and one by one, bit by bit, people began to use it--the woman with the little girl who looked about two through my window last January and looks about three now, and the people with their dogs, and the neighbors passing by or sitting in the sunlight under the green trees in the summer, one or two at a time, never talking to each other, but sharing the chalk. Every rainfall it washed away, and a few days later there would be art again: bright flowers and shaky hopscotch courts, scrawling letters of BLACK LIVES MATTER and GO VOTE and HAPPY 4TH OF JULY, the oddly-colored fish I circled around the middle of the yard in June and the only jack-o-lantern I put out this year at the end of October.  Nearly every person in this building is an adult, very nearly no children at all, but everyone played this summer, or if we didn’t play, we saw it out our windows under the green trees all year long.

The neighbor downstairs on the other side of the hall took up clarinet this year, or started practicing at home in the middle of the afternoon--not at the start of quarantine, when we were all shy and quiet, but later on, bit by bit, as the hair came down and the cabin fever set in.  They are good at clarinet, and they are taking joy in it, and some days I turn off my own music just to listen for a while as they practice.  Today they played the Totoro theme song, just loud enough to be quiet and smile at.

On weeks my D&D group can’t convene a quorum (we’ve tried so hard to hold zoom sessions, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t and sometimes the Japanese prime minister resigns and a house none of us have ever lived in catches fire and things go wrong), our cleric screenshares the New York Times crossword, and whoever’s there works in laughing diligent cooperation to fill out puzzle after puzzle, tripping each over each other to answer clues first while our cleric tries to keep up with typing in the letters.  We can solve a Sunday in about twenty minutes. Last month we worked on the Cryptic Crossword for well over an hour before we had to break up for the night, but it got shared to the group chat.  Three days and well over a hundred text messages later, I unmuted the thread to discover that my players had managed to work together and solve the entire thing, and I found I was so proud of them I could burst.  (Then I wrote them a five-dimensional logic grid puzzle to solve on a time limit, because they keep talking their way out of combat and if they can do THAT, then they can figure out that the Marquis of the Mews is an archfey wearing pink in the midst of a ball where they can only ask yes or no questions and must be done by midnight.)

All year long, we have held virtual knit night on Thursdays from our homes.  All year long until it grew too cold, the owner of our little yarn store set up chairs on her sidewalk on Saturday afternoons, six feet apart, where we could bring our masks and our yarn and knit in the bright sunshine and see each other face to face and be seen in return.  (And the owner of our little yarn store has stayed in business, and not just because she made that place a home for us over months and years before 2020 even happened, but because so many people have learned to knit this year, and so many people have found something to do with their hands and their hearts and their yarn that is soft and beautiful to look at and warm in the cold.)

I have a friend who texts me every weekday morning at 11:30 AM to check in and poke my executive function into gear if it needs an external starter.  I have a friend seven time zones away who makes lists of the things they need to do that day in our discord chat at 3 AM my time, and when I wake up and check in I make lists back while they’re at work, and if they wake up the next morning again and I’m still awake they prod my executive function to put me to bed again.  I have internet friends I’ve fallen out of touch with and internet friends I’ve found again and I’ve gone through seven different fandoms this year skipping from rec to rec to rec, and had people to talk and cry and flail at about every single one.

Sometimes strangers do nice things for strangers just because they can.  This year I have commented on more fic than ever before in my life, essays that took half an hour to write because I could and I needed somebody to know they’d touched me, to maybe touch them back.  This year, someone on my dash gave me access to a whole trove of personally-uploaded movies because I’d lost my Miyazaki library and she had one to share and, fuck, if you can do something like that for a friend of a friend of a friend, why wouldn’t you?  An acquaintance gave me a free handsewn mask that fits better than anything else I’ve bought this year.  I am so, so, so proud of the students I have helped survive this year of remote learning, bit by painstaking bit, as they passed AP Calculus and junior high biology and learned to write beautiful papers and run statistical analyses and make lists of ADLs and cope with getting out of bed every day when there’s nobody to notice if they don’t.

I’ve spent more time sitting on my back porch this year than I have in longer than I can remember, even when I have to put on a winter coat and extra socks to eat dinner.  The people across the alley have put up their Christmas tree on their back deck for the season, and their downstairs neighbors strung lights.  They’re beautiful in the dark.

[sleepylixie]

The Twilight Renegade- Spellcaster! Lee Know

Word Count: 1.5k

Genre: As fantasy as it can get!

Beware of violence(a mild dose of it), mentions of an unhealthy household. Minho is a tricky lil shit and I loved writing him-

A/N: THIS FIC DOES NOT REFLECT THE CHARACTER OR LIKENESS OF THE REAL LEE KNOW IN ANY FORM OR MANNER. ONTO THE FIC!! I enjoyed writing this wayyy too much 💀😂😂 The idea of having Minho be a dark wizard was so appealing for reasons i am yet to comprehend. ANYWAYS. ENJOY!!

Requests are open for SKZ and BTS! || Masterlist

The Twilight Renegade.His name is passed from ear-to-ear in hushed whispers, his story told at children’s bedsides, the bard’s bonfires and old wives’ kitchens.

There’s so much known about the legendary dark wizard and yet, his existence remained shrouded in a cloak of mystery.

Where did he come from? Was he mortal? Did he sell his soul to the Devil? 

It was said that the Twilight Renegade travelled the world cloaked and under disguise, sometimes not as a human, providing justice and retribution to those who couldn’t find it for themselves.

Where the Renegade came a- knockin’, treachery went a-runnin’, chorused the old song that every travelling musician worth his salt knew the words from memory.

Some said he was a poor orphan who died and was reincarnated by a magician hunting for a protegee.

Some claim to have known him as a child, a strange little boy who grew up with blood on his hands and bones in his pocket, he was always a strange one until he ran away from his family to never be seen again.

Some swear up and down to have seen his true face, singing praises of beautiful eyes and seductive lips like a maiden but a dead smile that betrayed his true nature. 

If only they knew his true nature.

Said Twilight Renegade went by the name Lee Minho when he was off the job and was nothing more than a cat parent with a penchant for goodwill trickery.

In the spring days, a smiling young man wandered the marketplace with fresh game, bartering pleasantly with the baker and the butcher, greeting the maidens with a wink as they cooed at the 3 cats frolicking at his feet.

Of course, it was all a pretense-

the maidens only ever had eyes for Minho’s angular jawline and his sharp nose, his strong shoulders and lean yet built frame

sigh

He was an oddity, the sweetheart of the village. 

Lee Minho lived in the corner of the village by himself for around 1/3rd of the year, then leaving on work trips the very day autumn begins to set in

He only reappeared again the morning summer awakens in their village, after almost 10 months away.

He’d bring back exotic spices for the old wives, pretty gemstones for the little girls and daggers for the little boys- 

he was generous, the sweetheart of the village.

He’d always laugh away the questions thrown at him about his work trips, surrounded by hot-blooded young men in the crowded bar.

“Nothing interesting, I promise you,” He’d smile his mystery smile, tipping back his beer. “A lot of trading and a lot of travelling. You meet a lot of new people. That’s pretty much it.”

He was mysterious, the sweetheart of the village.

Little did those hot-blooded young men know how truthful, yet false his words were.

Lee Minho was a 400 year old dark magician, born into a small home of supernatural oddities.

His father was the last dark magician of a lost cult, his mother a necromancer from a family of elementalists.

He grew up with a rocky childhood, a shattered home where fights between a power-drunk father and alcoholic mother raged more often than not. 

They had nowhere to go but home, they told Minho every night, for they had no family left but each other, and of course, him.

This young boy with lilac eyes and a penchant for spell-casting grew up more in the wilderness than in his own home, finding the crickets and owls safer than breaking glass and raging screams.

He found himself a love for animals-particularly of the feline type, cooing at the kittens in the ditch and unabashedly playing tag with the panthers over no-moon nights. 

Minho’s parents were united in one front, however; they knew they had to leave their son with all the magical knowledge they’d ever gained over their years.

So Minho became his parents’ apprentice-He learnt to harness dark energy, to reanimate cat skulls and then cat skeletons, to bind the shadows to his bidding, to build incantations that would suck out his enemy’s power,to read minds, break minds

The more Minho’s power grew, the darker his eyes got- by the time he was 20, his eyes were bordering a deep royal purple.

He was his father’s pride and his mother’s joy, the apple of their eyes despite the hate they harbored for each other. He could almost believe that they were a normal family if he spent as long as he could out of the house with his feline (dead and alive) friends. 

It was on one such night that he made his way back home just before sunrise, only to scramble back into the bushes and watch in terror as a battalion of humans tore his house apart with pitchforks and fire,

Drag his mother out by the hair, chanting WITCH. WITCH. WITCH. WITCH. 

Watch his father be overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of mortal weaponry, succumb to age and fall, broken and very, very dead, from the way his head hung off his shoulders 

Watch his mother burnt alive in front of his house’s doorstep, left to die with her husband.

And felt something crack inside him.

//

There were limits even a necromancer couldn’t cross, even after the loss of their loved ones. 

Minho was distraught, understandably so. Having to watch his only family be butchered by a senseless mob had him bristling in a mix of emotions he couldn't differentiate.

He stayed in the woods with the owls, crickets and assorted felines, hunting game and satiating his human hungers.

He wished he wasn't human anymore. He wished he didn't have to be associated to a race of people that killed and let kill without a second thought, under the name of humanity.

Weren't his parents human too?

It was that exact thought that had him pulling together all of the magic running in his veins and perform his possibly last, potentially dangerous spell-

Nobody knows what happened in the Twilight Woods that night, but nobody would forget the raucous screaming that emanated from there for hours, like a young boy's screams of pain

And nobody would forget the piles upon piles of bones that laid at the edge of the woods

Human bones.

Every pitchfork wielder who had turned up at the witch family's house to burn the inhabitants were reported missing that very day.

//

Turns out Lee Minho had a skill other than feline whispering and spell-casting: he had an uncanny knack for staying alive

That final spell he cast in Twilight Woods was an incredibly dangerous spell that involved sucking out surrounding life forces- enough to make the caster virtually immortal

And of course he chose the people in the mob, not the sweet animals in the woods.

His new immortal status gave Minho a purpose in life.

He decided he was going to rid the world of all the lowlife scumbags that felt privileged and entitled to things and people who didn't belong to them.

//

Word travelled fast, even in thise times, of a dark wave that swept out from Twilight woods into the surrounding towns in a matter of months

Woman abusers and rapists found without genitalia, slave traders dead of uncurable disease

Cheating nobility hung by their coattails in town squares for their victims' amusement, their rightful money returned to them

The dark wave had a sense of humor.

When one of the stragglers of the dark wave swore that the dark wave was a person, a man, dressed in twilight purple and a dangerous smile

Townsfolk took to calling him the The Twilight Renegade

Minho took the name to heart, for what was he if not a newly immortal spell caster with a sense for the dramatic

He wore purple all the time, a mockery of the colour scheming nobility claimed for themselves

What a nice twist of irony would it be, to have your fate decided by a lowborn magical spellcaster who wore the colour of luxury better than they?

Everybody knows the story of the magical Robin Hood who came from questionable origins, but lived life with a love for trickery, feline companions and an unflinching sense of good.

[one-abuse-survivor]

So I grew up not realizing my Mom was toxic till high school, more specifically when I actually had to leave the house on Christmas eve for a ten minutes as my stepfather held her back because I said I didn’t want to be a lawyer or any job she wanted me to be. My mom was abused as a kid and she does this thing of: Your life can’t be hell because of what I went through at your age. She is also Jekyll and Hyde. One moment nice, the next threatening to drown me in a tub. (1/?)

And recently it has gotten worse. I am 18 and she will say things like: You are an adult now, you can do whatever you want. While also going: I need you to have a tracker app on, I need to be able to call you, I need to know the license plate number of your date, etc. While also going on about how I need to fix my personality or no guy will like me. She only spanked me when I misbehaved and shoved soap in my mouth when I cried. She stopped once she realized I could defend myself (2/?)

And yet, she still says things or does things. She one time told me as a young girl that my body wasn’t owned by me. It was owned by her and I would own my child’s body.... She has my whole life set out. My future kids names, how she is going to take them from me, spoil them, and drop them off as teenagers as pay back for what I did to her. Heck, she said she was going to drown me in a bathtub yesterday because of how I thought my bra was uncomfortable. (3/?)

And she smiled when I grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her far away from me by natural instinct while telling her that I am 18, it would count as murder, and my dad would make sure she served. She freaking smiled... at me.. telling her.. that if she drowned me.. it would be murder.. And what’s worse is that I sit here sometimes, too scared to get help cause what if they say I am overreacting? What if everyone takes her side? (4/?)

Heck, I one time tried to end it all. And she just looked at me and said: Do it, I don’t mind sending you to a mental hospital for the rest of the summer... And not only that but she told me one time I couldn’t apply to Calarts because she would A: make me pay tuition by myself or b: go with me to college... And she says she loves me, but I am starting to doubt it.. And now? I have no freedom. My school decided to not let anyone on campus last minute.. I’m never going to be free (5/?)

I just want a good family... My whole family is plagued with drama and abuse.. I only feel safe with my dad, who was once a shitty person but changed for me.. And what hurts the most is that one time she told me she wished she never met my father... How it was one of the worse mistakes of her life. And I just.. I just want to run off with my friends.. But I’m too scared to. She says she knows friends everywhere and how my grandparents would send mercenaries to find me.. (6/?)

I feel trapped. Heck, I already feel trapped cause my ex called me abusive for some of my flaws that I keep trying to get fixed, but I can’t cause no one is even telling me when I go back to old habits. He would just yell at me when I didn’t even realize I did something wrong. And the guilt of possibly being like my mom keeps me in bed all day.. No matter how many of my friends tell me and show me old chat convos of how my ex manipulated me.. I don’t want to be her.. (7/?)

-----

Nonnie, I’m really glad you realised that she is abusive and that you have your dad and your friends to feel safe around and to remind you you’re not anything like her. Because you aren’t; not even if you do things wrong sometimes. It’s completely normal for abuse victims to be unable to handle situations that we interpret as distressing or dangerous in a healthy way; I did my fair share of toxic things because of my trauma before I started recovery. This doesn’t make you abusive. It just means you’re hurting, and you deserve to heal and to forgive yourself for not handling things better.

She may say that she loves you, but whether that’s true in a wicked sort of way or just another way to manipulate you, what is 100% true is that she’s abusing you, and love doesn’t excuse or fix any of that. Love doesn’t give her a right to your body, your future, or your hypothetical future kids. And love doesn’t cancel out telling you you’re her worst mistake. Which, by the way, is her own responsibility if you are. You didn’t choose to be born; she chose to have and keep you, and she chose to make your life hell. None of this is your fault.

This is just an idea, and if there’s any chance that this will put you in danger just disregard it, but: have you considered asking your dad to move out with him? I don’t know if he knows what’s going on, or if he lives with you and your mother or not... but sometimes relying on your non-abusive parent is the fastest and safest way to get out of an abusive situation, so I wanted to bring it up. 

Sending virtual hugs ❤

[stcviewren]

[ STEPHANIE “STEVIE” WREN BLEU. 23. NONBINARY. SHE/THEY ] is here! They’ve lived in Silver Lake for [ 1 YEAR ] and are originally from [ SAN FRANCISCO ]. They are a [ BASS PLAYER ] and in their downtime love [ THRIFT SHOPPING ] and [ MAKING PLAYLISTS ]. They look a lot like [ DIANA SILVERS ] and live [ IN OASIS APTS ]. 

hello ! i’m sam or if ya feeling crazy sammy works too. i’m 23, i reside in the currently cloudy but usually sunny southern california (so, pst timezone!), and i’m being the worst employee ever by joining rps instead of working from home !! quick get to know the mun: i’m a cap sun, i eat too much pasta, i like to listen to 50s r&b, and i’ve worn the same pair if sweatpants for the past week and a half. anyway, pls see below for more about stevie!!

Full Name: Stephanie Wren Bleu

Nickname: Stevie only, pls. Their mom calls them Steffie.

DOB: December 1, 1996

Zodiac: Sagittarius Sun, Aquarius Moon, Libra Rising

Religion: Jewish

Gender: Nonbinary, demi girl. She/They. 

Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Homoromantic/Homosexual

Occupation: Bassist 

Alignment: True Neutral 

Personality Type: INFP-A The Mediator 

Hogwarts House: Slytherpuff (but more Hufflepuff)

Five positive traits: idealistic, open minded, generous, gracious, diplomatic

Five negative traits: impractical, impatient, takes things too personally, indecisive, will hold a grudge for 15 years

Character Parallels: Amy (Booksmart), Stevie Budd (Schitt’s Creek), Donna Pinciotti (That 70′s Show), Phoebe Buffay (Friends)

background

Originally from a small suburban town on the outskirts of San Francisco (she’ll tell you she’s just from San Francisco)

She has a little brother who is 4 years younger and who she thinks is a complete twerp but she loves him anyway I guess

Her parents were fairly lenient growing up. If they showed interest in anything, their parents would encourage them to pursue it, but they never pushed too hard. No ideas were put to shame in the Bleu household. You’re 13 and want to splatter paint your room because you saw it on Tumblr? Sure, creative expression. In the same vein, they weren’t punished for not excelling. They expected their kids to try their best, but never expected them to be the best. So when Stevie got a C in Algebra in the 10th grade, they kind of just said — at least you tried your hardest!

Started playing clarinet in the 4th grade and yes she was in marching band in high school and no we do not talk about this time

Also she went to a private Catholic school. This had less to do with religion (she was raised Jewish, actually) and more to do with the education that the school offered

She picked up playing bass when she was 14 which is the instrument she ultimately ended up sticking with

Went to NYU for college, lived there for 4 years, became the embodiment of a Williamsburg hipster 

Moved back west after graduation, so she’s been living in Silverlake for just under a year

She’s the bassist in a small indie band called Free Prophets. They sound like Allah-Las and they have virtually no following lmao. They mostly just play bar gigs, Sofar Sounds shows in people’s living rooms, and Concerts in the Park during the summer days. That being said, Stevie isn’t really chasing fame in the slightest. She kinda just likes grooving and jam sessions, she’s not really interested in playing stadiums and all that BS anyway

Obviously that is not enough to make a living so she also works at funkytown thrift store during the day, and teaches clarinet/bass/guitar/piano to kids. 

details & tidbits

Stevie never had a questioning phase they pretty much always knew they were into girls. And being from a family that was so communicative and open, she never really felt the need to hide anything. She came out as gay in 10th grade whens he was 15

Always has been unapologetically herself. Not about to change for anyone

Cool girl vibes...idk how else to explain it 

Pretty tall standing at 5′11′’

Wears a lot of denim and flannels, converse, clips in her hair. Loves a good pair of overalls 

Drinks a lot of craft beer. Take her on a date to a brewery you’ll have her heart! 

Cat mommy! Has bengal cat named Tofu (no reason), a sphynx named Dragibu (her favorite French candy as a kid), and a burmese named Pierogi (her favorite food to get at her favorite diner in NYC). They are her babies. 

Also a plant mom but her cats always eat her plants and it’s a vicious cycle. But her apartment is in fact covered in plants anyway

Big Stoner Energy

Obsessed with horror movies and true crime

wanted connections

roommate(s)? i can see stevie having 1-2 roommates at the oasis apts so if anyone has a spare room... :) (she’s been in silverlake for about a year now)

band / jam sesh pals! stevie is in a band called Free Prophets, she’s the bass player, they’re not famous at all (probably have less than 1,000 followers on insta). They sound like Allah-Les.if this works for your muse...let’s make a band! if not, jam session buddies would be awesome, because Stevie just likes to groove 

tinder hook ups ?? i meeeeean. yeah. self explanatory. *billy eichner vc* let’s go lesbians

nyu friends / nyc friends: if anyone’s muse went to nyu during 2015-2019 let’s talk college pals! or anyone that lived in nyc during those years where it makes sense that they might’ve known each other...let’s run with it 

san francisco friends: stevie grew up in san francisco and lived there till she was 18, so if it makes sense for them to know each other from the bay area LES DO IT

ghost hunting friends: listen there are a lot of haunted landmarks in la and it’s stevie’s mission to visit all of them. gimme some pals who are as obsessed with horror flicks so they can bond over it 

and as always i am very much up for chem !! but if any of these plots work, pls lmk! i’m available via im here or on discord @ capricornmom #1278 :)

[eloqvents]

♡  ◟ °  ›   lucy boynton, female, she/her, twenty three   ⋯   ❛   thank you for applying to SEX AND THE TITTY, ELODIE MONET ! before we start this job interview, i would just like to go over a few questions. you said your best attribute was DEBONAIR, right ? well, word around town is that some people find you to be a bit more GUARDED… but, nevermind that. i’m actually more curious about whether you were actually caught DRUNKENLY SERENADING OUTSIDE OF YOUR EX’S HOUSE AT 3 AM last year ? oh, you were ? that’s unfortunate. on the bright side, i heard that you excel at COOKING …. so that’s cool ! now, one more question … your last manager said that you’re hiding THAT YOU PRETENDED TO GO TO REHAB TWO YEARS AGO BECAUSE YOU WERE PREGNANT, is that true ? — haha , just kidding ! they didn’t say that, i just read that about you online . anyway , you got the job ! ❜ 】 eri, pst, she/her. 

hello all ! it’s eri once again with another muse bc we just can’t get enough. anyway, please excuse how shitty this intro is going to be bc i am lacking sleep.

ok to start off, her parents are loaded so she’s very wealthy. original from la, her father was a well-known producer and her mother a stay at home mom. long story short, their marriage was a far cry from a happily ever after. growing up watching their parents fall apart, elodie and her brother latched onto each other and he remained her wall. it was painfully obvious however that their father favored the other, whether it be because he was the only son, or how musically and theatrically inclined he was... and she found herself thrown off to the side much like her mother, except a lot stricter rules set in place that she found herself easily breaking. curfew? forget it. no boys? she was sneaking them in all too often.... but even more easily having her girl “friends” over for sleepovers with no questions asked. she began resenting her father early on and it only grew the more rules, until finally she threw all caution to the wind and fell off the expected monet route.

by 15 she was known as the party girl. she did her school work most of the time, kept good enough grades to keep her parents off at least that aspect of her life. going out every weekend, never coming home on time or just refusing to answer her phone. she was a hellion, with no cares in the world, and she simply lived with no worries and absolutely no care or respect toward her parent's wishes. they virtually gave up on controlling their daughter by the time she was 17, clearly making her own choices and took no bother in chastising her as they knew their efforts would get them nowhere.

despite the dysfunction of the family, they did vacation to stone harbor every summer which had become some of elodie’s favorite memories of her younger years ( i would love any plot referencing her coming back every year and what not ok )

at 18 she had a choice. college, or follow her heart. new york was calling, as much fun as she had in la... it just wasn’t quite it. and new york was so exciting. the following summer she found herself back in stone harbor, unable to resist the tradition but instead opting to stay the summer..... except she never left. with all the fond memories she held in the place, and finally being far away from her family, she felt like she’d found herself. or at least the closest to home she’d ever had.

we gonna skip ahead to her getting pregnant three years ago, which is something she told no one (not even the potential father). the day she found out she was packing her bags and leaving stone harbor with no word, instead of leaving a note for her roommate ( plot wanted ) at the time, and sending out a group text explaining she had decided to go to rehab. it seemed like a good excuse, not a complete lie considering she did not touch any alcohol or substance during her pregnancy. she instead went and stayed with her aunt and uncle in london.

she went back and forth on what she wanted to do, spending her days swaying back and forth between keeping the baby and starting a fresh life or putting it up for adoption. but after a particularly painful depressive episode, she decided for the safety of both of them she had to give her baby girl up. this is when her aunt and uncle said they would take the baby in, not wanting to separate family, and it is a secret she’s kept in to this day.

coming back from rehab, she had changed. at first cold, extremely depressed, and she wanted to stay away from her prior addictions but within a few weeks she was right back into it. drinking nearly daily, taking whatever pills or drugs were offered, although she was much more cautious when it came to sex. becoming quite a bit pickier when it comes to men, however her love for women only seemed to grow.. likely due to the fact she could not get pregnant that way.

she’s had her ups and downs, about six months ago she came back from a few months at rehab once again after an especially harsh bender that landed her in the hospital. sobriety has continuously and still continues to be a struggle for her. she swore up and down that she wanted the help after begging her parents to pay ( not wanting to dip into her own hefty inheritance ) for her to go back, although within a month she found herself dabbling in other substances, occasionally taking a little too many of her medications at once, and having a drink, or two, or three....

while she was staying with her aunt in france, she spent a lot of time cooking with the elder woman and it became the most therapeutic thing to her... at least without getting high.. it’s become one of the only things that can genuinely distract her, although she does become a master chef when you add a little pot to the mix, but she hardly counts that against sobriety anyway.

personality-wise elodie doesn’t really hold back her opinion, and although she won’t go out of her way to avoid stepping on toes, she will try to make things as least confrontational as possible. in her opinion, life has shoved her around enough and she prefers to not allow anyone the excuse to do it too. but........ in those cases she will probably show her temper and make sure people know she isn’t going to be walked all over. she’s very upbeat, tries her hardest to be excited for life each day ( or pops an extra xanny if it’s a particularly hard day ). however.. her bad days are bad. if she’s down enough its nearly impossible to get her out of bed for anything other than a shower. some are harder than others, especially nearing the birthdate of her daughter delaney ( 2 currently ). 

a few more facts bc this is long uh: she writes a letter every day to her daughter and saves it in a special box kept secret in her room. she dabbles in poems and other types of prose, and has a goal of one day writing and illustrating her own childrens book in dedication to her daughter. she has a lot of money and could technically afford to not work, however she took a bartending job at sex and the titty for side cash and to send a monthly check to help support her daughter. and laaaaastly, she is kind of a hopeless romantic and loves romcoms way too much. she is 100% the type that believes very strongly in love but just ... sucks at it. she’s scared to commit herself but she’s also not afraid to shout from the rooftops ??? rn she’s trying to work on herself so 

oh and here is a playlist and pinterest for her even tho she wasn’t here for the task:)))

connection ideas ( plots page currently in progress )

an ex who she serenaded drunk at 3 am bc that rumor is definitely real

possible baby daddy

her old roommate that she bailed on, can be positive or negative

a best friend, like the blair and serena type ( minus all the fighting ... or not ) that can tell each other and count on the other for anything

exes in general, good, bad, ugly, any and all.

slow burn ??? or the one that got away ??? or maybe they just keep missing each other ???

maybe an enemy or someone she had a falling out with in the past

ANYONE SHE USD TO HANG OUT WITH IN THE SUMMER BEFORE ACTUALLY LIVING THERE. gimme them long term friendships / relationships

a good influence // the person who tries to help her not keep fucking her life up

alternatively .. the bad influence that encourages and participates in a lot of not so good activities with her

tbh i just want anything and everything so throw any ideas at me bc i’ll probably be in

listen i know i forgot like 239523852 things and rambled on too much but i just love her and could go on forever. 

[swordart0nline]

Happy SAO pride week!

Virtual world vs Real world Fanfiction under the cut! ^_^

Kazuto closed the door behind him and sat on his bed. His room, an androgynous grey to his design, surrounded him with comfort. He didn’t even need to look when he reached for the amusphere, which had been sitting in it’s familiar spot on his bedside table like always. Setting it on his head and closing the visor over his eyes, he closed them and welcomed the split second of darkness before he could say “Link Start!” Whenever Kazuto closed his eyes, he couldn’t help but remember the hours that came before. Usually the most interesting thing that happened at school came to mind. Other days’ topics were things like dinner. Today was different. He could feel himself wince as he reminisced on the most spotlight-worthy interaction of today.  “You look like a boy,” Mixed reactions filled his head. What would’ve been considered an insult on regular terms made him filled with joy. But what followed...

“Yeah that’s actually really weird. Why do you do that?”

He remembered the feeling of being at loss for words. He remembered being alone like always and praying that a stranger would come and interrupt the situation. It’s not that they were intentionally singling out. Or maybe they were. It was just an incredibly difficult question. Why?

Why is it such a difficult thing to do. To dress and act the way I truly am? I’d say it’s far more stranger to put on that stupid mask every day and act like I’m happy. Truthfully I can’t stand it. I don’t know how you guys can. For as long as I can remember, it’s made me feel awful. I’ve finally made the choice to act for myself. Is that so bad?

Kazuto sighed as he regretted not saying those words in that moment. If only he could’ve frozen time in that moment to give himself enough time to think about something cool like that to say.

Realizing almost 5 minutes had passed of him sitting in complete darkness making faces to himself, he said the command to boot up the amusphere.

“Link start!”

Kazuto loved the virtual world. He had since he was a kid. His virtual name, “Kirito” was the first masculine name he chose for himself, and it felt so strange, but so good. When he first put it in the system, it felt so different compared to his given name. Every time he put his given name on anything, it felt like there was a sickness ready to make his brain collapse in on itself. 

This is normal, he grew up thinking. 

But why does he have to settle for what he’s handed? What’s the matter about taking matters into your own hands and fixing what’s broken? Is it so “weird” to find happiness for yourself? “Kirito...?”

He looked up to see his only friends looking at him. Their vibrantly colored elven avatars crowded the living room of his virtual home.

“What’s the matter? You look upset.” Silica said to him.

“Oh, sorry. Don’t worry about it, some girls just got on my nerves today. No big deal.” 

“Wow look at you, chick magnet!” Lisbeth smirked. “You must be so popular to have enough girls on you to get annoyed about it!!

“I-”

“Bad news for them! You got the best girlfriend in the world sitting right here!” she exclaimed, pointing at Asuna, sitting on the couch just a few inches away from Kazuto. She had somewhat of a worried look on her face, staring straight at him.

“Girl, you gotta be tougher on him.”

“No she doesn’t!” Kazuto managed to inerject, remembering their time in early Aincrad. Asuna may seem like too much of a sweetheart for her own good on the surface, but when it comes down to it she can, will, and has kicked Kazuto’s ass.

“You know what Kirito, I don’t blame them. You really are a cutie.” Asuna said.

“Get a room.” Sinon joked.

“Eeh...”

“I’m serious Kirito!” Asuna began to get upset. Half joking with a side of concern. 

“Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, Kirito. You’re a hansome boy!” Lisbeth added. “Everyone knows this!”

“That’s not funny. I’d never compliment Kirito. It’s against my moral code. I’d compliment anyone but Kirito” Sinon joked again. Kazuto let out a quiet chuckle at her teasing.

“I don’t blame you. He looks like a boy who’s just discovered punk music and is dipping his toes in the water. Like, he’s not dedicated enough to the genre, but he wears black in appreciation.” Lisbeth began the tease session.

“That was weak. He looks like he washes his clothes in nothing but coal because he spilled the detergent and is too nervous to go out and buy a new bottle.” Sinon followed up.

“Oh, oh!” Silica chimed in, “Kirito looks like a wannabe manga protagonist!”

“Please. He IS a wannabe manga protagonist”

The room erupted in laughter, but nobody was wheezing nearly as hard as Kazuto. He was nearly tearing up.

“Stop it you guys!”

He was grinning ear to ear, and his face red from laughing. As his laughing fit calmed slightly down, Asuna leaned over and looked him straight in the face. She had that terrifying, dead serious, determined look on her face that she made all the time in Aincrad.

“If people are giving you trouble, you tell them that your incredibly powerful girlfriend is on her way to get them with her intense gaming skills.”

The room interrupted in laughter yet again.

“I love you guys.” Kirito said when the laughter died down. “I’ve never met any of you in real life, but I want this to be my world so bad. Is that weird of me?”

“We spent two years in Aincrad. Those were undoubtly the best years of my life, because I could spend them with you guys. If i could be completely honest, I want more than anything to drop my real life and live in this world forever.”

Silica, Sinon, Lisbeth, and especially Asuna were listening attentively.

With this confession, Asuna knew just the slightest bit more about Kirito’s life in the real world. That it wasn’t as fortunate as hers. Although it made her feel slightly bad, she became determined to help and support Kirito even more.

“Kirito,”

“Hm?”

“Let’s meet up in real life.”

Sinon, Lisbeth, and Silica lit up in unison. The three were now excited to hear more about this plan.

“We can save up money and the whole gang can vacation to some place fun together!” Asuna said.

“Maybe a weekend in the summer somewhere? We could go some place like Osaka!” Silica added.

“Oh my gosh, yes! And maybe-” Lisbeth was suddenly interrupted by a saddened Kirito.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can...”

Kazuto truly wanted to be able to meet his only friends in the real world. You could see it on his face. But he was being held back by something.

“If you aren’t comfortable with it it’s totally fine, we don’t have to go this summer!” Asuna reassured. “Is everything okay?”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s getting late where I live. I should go to bed.” Kazuto said depressingly.

Everyone worriedly wished him goodnight and watched his avatar dissolve out of their virtual world.

“I really do hope everything is okay,” Asuna started. “I don’t want to pressure him to open up when he isn’t comfortable with it. I just want to be able to be there for him. I wish I could just teleport to his home in the real world and tell him everything is alright. Whatever he’s going through, I don’t want him to be alone in it.”

Kazuto removed the amusphere and looked out at the dusk sky. With the rollercoaster of emotions that today was, he was exhausted. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

He let down his ponytail and hid under his covers, wishing he could just skip trying to fall asleep and teleport to the next morning. Kazuto dreaded the thoughts that would flood his mind while he would try to fall asleep.

Closing his eyes harder didn’t prevent the floodgates from opening as he hoped.

In his time in aincrad, Kazuto was himself. He was Kirito. Although the Black Swordsman identity wasn’t exactly his cup of tea, he rest assured knowing that at least everyone saw him as he truly was. Male.

Kazuto remembered the moment Kayaba switched everyone’s avatars to represent their real selves. His stomach dropped as he saw his hair flow down his shoulders. As soon as the spectacle was over, he ran into an allyway, took his beginner sword, and sliced the length clean off. In that moment, he felt the literal and metaphorical weight off his shoulders. It wasn’t the best cut, but it got the job done. The rage and anger of the unfairness of it all manifested in that one cut. If only he could do that in the real world.

That’s when Klein found him, and where he left him. Part of the reason he left was so he wouldn’t feel guilty about lying to him, and he knew that. But what was he lying about?

Had he been lying to Asuna for those two years? Building their relationship off of a lie? Kazuto tried to stop the thought train from going to the place he dreaded, but it kept on rolling.

What if I told her and she hated me?

I wouldn’t blame her.

No. He has been living the truth. It just wasn’t the truth that reality wanted him to live. But it was the truth that he was. If Asuna hated him forever, then they weren’t meant to be.

But then two years wouldn’t have been wasted. If you told her in the beginning and she hated you, you wouldnt waste two years with her.

Tears started to manifest in his eyes, one slipping away into his long, tangled hair. What an awful way to think of his girlfriend. What an awful reality. He wished for nothing but to slip back away into the virtual world in that moment, just to be able to distract himself from this torture. But he had already told his friends he was going to bed. He would be caught with another lie on his hands.

Why not bring the virtual world to here?

Something, some force, made Kazuto shoot up out of bed. He wiped his wet eyes on his blanket and stormed to the bathroom. His footsteps echoed through the empty house. His sister and only other person in the house, was gone on a kendo trip. But even if she was home, nothing could stop his forward force. Nothing could stop his mysterious determination.

No. It���s not mysterious or weird. It’s what has to be done. It’s what has had to be done for a long time.

He opened his sister’s drawer and located the scissors, and grabbed the length of his hair with reddened knuckles and a furious grasp. Just like that, years worth of agony were draped on the bathroom floor. He swing his new, light head to the left and to the right. Not an unfamiliar feeling thanks to the likes of full dive, but surely it was different. It was new and refreshing, and it felt beautiful. Kazuto looked straight back at himself in the mirror and for the first time in what’s felt like a lifetime, he smiled. And with that, uncontrollable tears came flooding down his face.

This wasn’t the same crying that he’d been doing for years. This was liberation. He swept his own hands through his new look, and grinned ear to ear through his swollen, tear-stained face, and proceeded to make his way back to his room. With the weight of what felt like the world off his shoulders, Kazuto proceeded to sink into the most comfortable rest with a genuine smile on his face.

[edward-or-ford]

Opening chapter of my new fic

So I finished the first chapter of a new fic I’ve been working on, and I thought I’d share it. Think of this as a teaser of what’s to come eventually. I’ll hold off posting anything more until I’m finished the entire fic (tentatively 12 chapters and an Epilogue), and then I’ll roll them all out in sequence. Unfortunately, I fear that this will not be for a long while. Still, I hope you like this chapter, and here’s hoping it sets the stage effectively.

This fic is in the same AU as Exposure, and is a direct sequel to A Perfect Pines Christmas, starting off just a short time after the events of that story. Reading both of those before diving in here is not a requirement, but it would be helpful.

Non-graphic smut is alluded to here, but the remainder of this fic will definitely be NSFW.

March 2017

Lunch period was drawing to a close at Piedmont High School. The atmosphere was one of excitement and anticipation, typical for a Friday afternoon. Students reluctantly put down their phones and parted ways with friends, scurrying in different directions into hallways that were steadily filling up. There was just one more class left until the weekend.

Dipper Pines had just come from his locker, and was threading his way through the corridors teeming with teenage humanity, heading towards his senior Honors Physics class. He was approaching the classroom door when he heard a familiar screech, rapidly approaching from behind him.

“Diiiiiiiiiiiiiii … pperrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!”

He grinned and stepped to the side of the door, getting himself out of the way of his classmates.before turning in time to face his twin sister Mabel, who was rapidly barrelling down on him.

The teenage girl’s long hair billowed out behind her as she practically sprinted towards her brother, flagrantly in violation of school rules and common sense. She had to jump and spin to try and get out of the way of a younger student unlucky enough to step into her path, causing her to crash into Dipper clumsily. He caught her before she could tumble to the floor. “Sorry!” she shouted to the startled freshman boy. “Sorry, Bro!” she exclaimed frantically to Dipper.

Few other students took much notice of the commotion. After nearly four years, stories of Mabel’s over-the-top displays of exuberance were the stuff of legend in the school and from a distance this show of shameless excitement appeared tame by her standards.

Dipper, though, could see in her eyes that this was not a routine “Mabel Moment”. She was clutching her phone tightly and waving it in his face. “It’s here!” she panted urgently. “The email from CalArts just came! Oh my gosh Dip it’s here!”

“Oh man!” Dipper held Mabel by her forearms to try to contain her quivering. “Did they say yes? Were you accepted?”

Her eyes and mouth both widened maniacally. “I don’t know yet! I didn’t open the message!” she squealed. “I didn’t want to open it without you here! I’m so scared! What if I didn’t get in?”

Dipper was well practiced in suppressing his urge to hold and embrace Mabel. In times of stress and excitement, it had always been perfectly normal for both of them as kids to express support for one another through close, physical touches. Holding hands, and even hugging one another, came naturally to them, and the instinct hadn’t faded as the years passed. But as they grew into adolescence, the twins had to learn to force down their urges to be touchy in that sort of way out in public. It was necessary because the odd appearance of affection and closeness between siblings would attract unwanted attention from everyone else. The last thing they needed was suspicion and whispers that the Pines twins were doing a lot more together than a brother and sister were supposed to do. It would be very damaging for “twincest” rumours about them to start circulating around the school.

Particularly because such rumours would be entirely true.

For over a year and a half, since the summer prior to their junior year, the Pines twins had quietly been connected on a romantic level, emotionally and physically. In the privacy of their home, they could freely complete each other. But elsewhere, they obviously had to be much more careful.

Dipper pulled his bouncing sister away from the classroom door until they were several yards away, standing next to a line of lockers. Students continued to hurry past them, but no one was stopping to listen to them.

“Mabel, you can’t open that message! Not now!” he muttered sharply, trying to be quiet without looking like he was trying to be quiet. He pushed Mabel’s arms down so that she couldn’t look at her phone’s screen.

“Whaaat?!” she whined in sincere confusion. “I have to! You didn’t wait when you got your acceptance email a few days ago!”

“Think about it!” Dipper fired back, desperately trying to signal to Mabel that she needed to calm down. “This is the moment we find out if-” he took a fast glance around it make sure they were not being listened to and lowered his voice, “... if we’ll be together in college. This can only go one of two ways. If you didn’t get in, that’ll be awful, we’ll both be really sad, and I’ll have to hug and kiss you right here in front of everybody. But if you did get in, that’ll be great, we’ll both be really happy, and I’ll have to hug and kiss you right here in front of everybody!” He leaned in, staring directly into Mabel’s eyes for understanding. “You see the problem?”

Mabel’s expression was a combination of grudging understanding of her brother’s logic and indignant outrage at the injustice of her current plight. “Dipper, if I don’t read it, how the heckity-heck am I going to get through the next class?”

Dipper was genuinely sympathetic. He really wanted to know as well, but he also knew how emotional both of them were going to be. This just wasn’t the right place or time. “Mabes ....”

“I’m serious!” she cried. “I’ve got an hour and a half of Statistics, man! Statistics! Especially in that class, I can’t last that long without looking! I have to know!”

The crowds of fellow teenagers were thinning out, the remaining students moving swiftly past them. Dipper glanced at his watch. Smiling grimly to himself, he stared at the floor for a long moment.

“So what are we doing?” Mabel complained.

After several more seconds, Dipper lifted his face, looking back at Mabel with a set jaw and apologetic mischief in his eyes. “We go to our classes, and then we read the email after school,” he replied coyly. Then he snatched the phone from Mabel’s hand and bolted for his classroom door a few yards away. Before Mabel could recover, he was through the door at precisely the moment the bell started ringing. “Sorry!” he called back his sister, and then he was safely inside before Mabel’s fingers could grab hold of him.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, Mr. Pines?” his teacher observed dryly.

“Sorry,” Dipper said again, hurrying quickly to his desk. Slipping into his seat, he noticed Mabel continuing to hover menacingly in the open doorway, and suspected the apoplectic expression of rage on her face was at least partially genuine. The rest of the students in Physics class giggled at Dipper’s notorious twin as he grinned and waved, letting her see him slip her phone into his backpack.

Dipper’s physics teacher was known for his sardonic attitude. He opened his arms in a grand, welcoming gesture to the immobile teenager standing in the doorway of his classroom. “Will you be joining us as well, Miss Pines?” he deadpanned.

“No sir,” she grumbled in reply, ignoring the snickers of amusement from Dipper’s classmates. Shooting her twin an over-exaggerated look of intent to exact vengeance, she marched off in a huff, now late for her class.

By the time school let out, Mabel’s vengeance-seeking impulses had calmed down to the point that Dipper only received a sharp punch on the arm for his insolent behavior. She allowed her phone to remain securely in Dipper’s book bag, away from temptation, as they hurried out the doors of the school and onto Magnolia Avenue.

They headed home from Piedmont’s town center as quickly as they could, sprinting through the winding streets and paths of the middle-to-upperclass neighborhoods. The route home from school was uphill virtually the entire way, a fact which Mabel complained about more than once between labored gasps for air. But the urgency of the moment spurred her on, and Dipper struggled to keep up with her as cool spring temperatures helped to offset the sweat they built up.

They were panting heavily as Mabel waved the white ceramic band on her ring finger over the front door lock. It beeped and the deadbolt slid open, allowing Mabel to stumble over the threshold and into the foyer. Dipper followed, dropping his backpack off of his shoulder to the floor.

A voice called out from the home office at the back of the house. “Is that you, kids?”

“... Yeah … Dad! ...” Dipper gasped back, leaning over with his hands on his knees.

Their father’s job in the IT department of a San Francisco tech firm often allowed him to work remotely, so it was not unusual for him to be home on a weekday. “What’s with all the huffing and puffing?” he asked. He was probably still sitting at his desk, but could obviously hear the twins’ struggles to regain their breath.

“... CalArts … decision … need to read ...” Mabel panted loudly in reply.

After fishing Mabel's phone from his backpack, Dipper staggered into the adjacent living room and collapsed onto the sofa. Mabel wearily took the phone from Dipper as she flopped down unceremoniously beside him, unlocking the screen. Dipper’s attention didn’t leave the device in Mabel’s hands as she switched to her email app.

Her gaze was fixed on the screen, an unopened message from “California Institute of the Arts - Department of Admissions” at the top of the inbox. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” she repeated over and over, almost as a mantra. She continued to breathe hard, now seemingly more out of panic than exhaustion. Holding a shaking finger over the message, twice she brought her finger to within a millimeter of the surface of her phone’s screen, only to pull it back.

��Aaaaaaaaagh!” she finally screamed. “I can’t do it! .... Dip, please …” she put a palm over her eyes as she handed the phone over. “Can you just … just read it! Please!!” Dipper took the phone gently, then tapped the message. Eyes still squeezed closed, Mabel groped for Dipper’s free hand and gripped tightly.

For a long moment, Dipper stared at the screen in silence. Soberly, he started reading. “It says ... ‘Dear, Mabel’ …” Then his voice betrayed the smile that was exploding on his face. “‘I am delighted to inform you of your acceptan-’’”

The remainder was cut off by a loud ecstatic screech. Mabel ripped her phone back out of Dipper’s grasp and leaped to her feet. After examining the screen for a second, she screamed even louder and started jumping around uncontrollably. Dipper had also sprung up, and with a huge laugh of elation he grabbed his sister around her waist, holding on for dear life as she thrashed excitedly. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed tightly, tears of joy starting to stream down her cheeks. Dipper squeezed back, lifting Mabel off the floor and spinning her around, all the while letting loose celebratory hoots and hollers.

And then as Dipper lowered Mabel’s feet back to the floor, their mouths came together. It was a smooth and natural action, passionate and completely instinctual. Kissing one another with loving enthusiasm was exactly what their emotions demanded they do at that moment, and they happily complied with the demand.

The sounds of soft lip smacks and satisfied humming were interrupted by a soft beep. From the corner of his eye, Dipper saw his father, standing in the archway between the foyer and the living room, and let out a startled yelp. The twins both jumped from the unexpected sight of someone watching them together.

Their father had obviously been videoing the scene with his phone. He lowered it down to waist level and awkwardly kept his attention focused in the general direction of the device. “Uhhh … sorry,” he mumbled. “As soon as Mabel said what was up, I just figured your mother would want to see this when she gets home. I started recording when … you had just sat down.” He idly swiped the screen, refusing to look up. “I suppose … I can edit the last few seconds off that …” he grimaced, one side of his lower lip twitching, “... yeah ...”

The twins were blushing in embarrassment, Mabel hiding her face in her hands. Dipper began stammering in apology. “Dad, we didn- … I mean, I didn’t mean … We-”

“It's okay,” his father quickly interjected with a wave of his hand, his own face a little redder than normal, as well. “Don’t worry about it. I suppose it was understandable…” he continued, a half smile twitching his cheek, and finally looking Mabel in the eye, “... given the circumstances! Congratulations, Kiddo!” He pocketed his phone and approached her swiftly with outstretched arms. “I’m so happy you got in to the school you wanted!”

Delighted, Mabel let out a high-pitched peep and hugged her father back. “Thanks, Daddio!” she cried out, obviously relieved to be ignoring the uncomfortable moment. “I would never have had such a good portfolio without my Mac and Wac!” she squealed, referring to her Apple laptop and Wacom drawing tablet she had received as a Christmas present a few months before. “You and Mom helped me so much!”

“Me too, Dad,” Dipper added as their father loosened his hug on Mabel. “There’s no way I’d have been accepted either, not if you and Mom hadn’t got me my laptop and GoPro cameras.” He smiled gratefully as his father gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulder.

“You both deserved those things,” their father replied proudly as he stepped back, “but you didn’t get in because of them. Your portfolios were due only a month after you got those gifts, so your applications were mostly based on what you created without all the new technology. You both got in on your own merits!”

The praise felt good. The twins gazed at one another fondly, then tentatively looked back to their father. It was obvious that they wanted to resume what their father had interrupted. The awkward silence that followed always happened when the Pines family had to openly address the unorthodox nature of the twins’ relationship together.

“So,” their father said finally, the natural tone of authority returning to his voice, “you obviously get to … stay together now. Even after you leave home.”

“Yeah,” replied Mabel, avoiding direct eye contact while twisting a finger around a lock of hair.

She looked vulnerable, and Dipper fought down the impulse to insert himself between her and their father. When their parents had first become aware of the taboo relationship on Christmas Day more than a year earlier, their father had been initially angry enough to instill genuine fear in the twins. Enough that they immediately ran away, almost succumbing to hypothermia in the unusually frigid winter temperatures that had occurred that night. And even after all that time, even after both parents had long ago demonstrated that they could reluctantly tolerate the notion that their children were in love with each other, Dipper’s urge to protect Mabel from their father kept coming back. He hated that he still had that reaction.

“When you applied to CalArts, both of you put your names in for residence,” he said to the twins. “You still thinking that it’s a good idea to live on campus?”

Mabel shrugged. “They say the workload is super heavy the first year,” she said. “If we want to get in the studios after hours, we totes have to be close by.” Dipper agreed, nodding slowly.

“You think both of you can handle that?” her father remarked, a skeptical look on his face. “Given what you guys were …” he grimaced as he waved his hand vaguely back and forth between his children, “... just doing?”

Dipper cringed. “Yeah, we know,” he admitted. “When we applied …” he looked to Mabel, “I actually didn’t think there was any chance of me getting accepted into CalArts.” Mabel sighed at her brother’s typical lack of self confidence in his artistic skills. “But now … yeah, we have to really think about how we handle this.”

“No one knows us in Los Angeles,” Mabel suggested hopefully. “Maybe we just … don’t tell anyone we’re brother and sister?”

“Mabel, how suspicious would it look for your boyfriend to have the same last name as you?” said Dipper. “Or what if we accidentally slip up to someone, like one of us says something about ‘our’ parents, or ‘our’ home?”

“Not to mention that you can’t lie to the administrative staff,” added their father. “It’s a small school. There will be employees there who definitely will be able to see that you both have the same permanent address. Heck, they’ll know you have the same birthday! For someone to then see you together as a couple…” he shook his head, “... not a good idea!”

“Oh, Poop-a-doop!” sulked Mabel. “I was hoping somehow that we could be, I don’t know … free-er … or something!”

Dipper glanced apprehensively at his father, who had closed his eyes and taken a deep breath. After a long pause, the man relaxed and spoke up. “Look kids … even if your Mom and I are not exactly thrilled about your feelings … I hope you know we’ll stick with you, no matter what ...” Dipper felt a little surge of gratitude towards his father, and he could tell Mabel felt the same. “... but if you go to college together, and this thing you two have is going to continue, you’re not going to have a safe place like here at home to go to. Because of that, you’re going to want to take risks.” He gave a meaningful look to Mabel, and then to Dipper. “And when you take risks, eventually you’re going to get caught! I don’t ever want to see that happen to you, and neither does your Mom.” The twins nodded gravely, thinking about how their lives would change without the sanctuary of their home to retreat to for privacy.

Then their father clapped his hands together loudly, making both his children jump. He grinned at them as he rubbed his palms together. “But that’s not going to happen until the end of the summer,” he proclaimed. “For now, my kids both got accepted to their dream college, and we are going to celebrate!. As soon as your mother gets home from work, we’re all going out for dinner tonight!”

“It’s hard to believe we’ll still be able to stay together this fall,” Mabel hummed.

“Yeah!” Dipper sighed as Mabel rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “I didn’t want to dwell on it, but I really thought we’d be going our separate ways after this summer.”

The twins were laying on their stomachs beside one another atop Dipper’s bed, their laptops in front of them with the letters of acceptance from CalArts on their respective screens. They had already said goodnight to their parents, after the family had returned with full stomachs from a nice celebratory meal at a local seafood restaurant. Dipper had changed into his sleeping shorts and a loose t-shirt, and Mabel had joined him in the privacy of his room after she had gotten into her own oversized nightshirt.

“I’m still mad that you got accepted before I did!” Mabel grumbled with a pouty grin.

Dipper chuckled. “I’m sure they weren’t sent in any kind of order. They said that the different departments would send out their notices on their own schedules. The Art and Technology program probably just had more applicants, that might be why they took longer for you.” He nudged Mabel’s head with his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have worried anyways. Your marks are fine, and your application portfolio was amazing!” Then he let out a sigh. “A lot better than mine, that’s for sure!”

“Don’t be a dummy, Dummy!” Mabel retorted, poking Dipper and pointing at the message on the screen of her brother’s laptop. “The proof’s right there! Accepted into the ‘Integrated Media’ program! Of course they loved your sample video productions! You’re gonna get so good at making your weirdness and science-y programs.”

There was a long moment of silence that followed, both twins staring at their laptop screens. Ever the worrier, Dipper was considering his and Mabel's future together. But he was also wondering why Mabel had gone quiet, as well.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked, not really surprised that Mabel had asked the same question at precisely the same time.

They grinned at their uncanny “twinstinct” and laughed softly. But then Dipper exhaled, his smile disappearing quickly. “You know, Dad was right about how hard this is gonna be,” he sighed. “When we go off to college, I love that we’ll still be together. But …” his voice trailed off and he fidgeted bashfully.

A corner of Mabel’s mouth twitched up. “But what?” she prompted slyly.

Dipper sighed. “We’ll be together, but when will we be able to, you know … be together?”

Mabel’s smirk widened. “Why, whatever do you mean, dear brother?” she asked with mock innocence. Dipper glared back, trying and completely failing to show irritation at Mabel's intentional obtuseness.

She raised a comical eyebrow. “Are you referring to how you’re going to satisfy those nasty carnal desires? Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?” Her face broke into an enormous toothy grin. “Oh Bay-by!” Mabel purred with an atrocious, yet still somehow sultry, British accent. “Do I make you horny, Baby? Do I?”

Wincing in apparent pain, Dipper whined, “Mabelllllllll please don-”

But the homage to one of Mabel’s favorite cheesy 90s movie series would not be interrupted. Impossibly, her smile stretched even wider. “Do I make you … raaandy?” Both of her eyebrows were now dancing suggestively. “Yeaaaah Baby!!”

Dipper tried to swallow down anything that might encourage the silliness to continue. “I’m just saying …  Dad had a point this afternoon! We’re basically always going to be in public! We’re even going to be living with other roommates in residence. It’s going to be hard to make sure we’re ever in a place private enough for us to kiss … or even hold hands,” he said as he idly squeezed his fingers into her palm. “... let alone … more.”

Mabel gripped his hand back. “But if we were to go to different schools, we’d have none of each other,” she replied fondly. “I don’t know about you, Bro-Beau, but I’d rather have you close and take whatever I can get, instead of being far apart and getting nuthin’ at all!”

After thinking about it Mabel’s way, Dipper nodded. “Yeah, me too,” he admitted reluctantly.

“And maybe after first semester,” Mabel added, “if we find we don’t need to be on campus quite as much, we might get a place to ourselves. There’s a big neighborhood of houses and apartment buildings in Santa Clarita right around the campus. Maybe we could try to rent.” She pulled Dipper by the chin to make him face her. “But to start, we’ve just got to keep control of our …” she fanned her face lightly, “... desperate longings!!! ... for one another.”

Dipper continued to nod slowly in agreement as he thought about Mabel’s plan. Then he smiled in devilish admiration. “Who are you? You look like Mabel, but I don’t think she could ever be so mature about this!”

“I’ll have you know I am mature in everything I do!” Mabel replied haughtily, her expression indignant as she proceeded to place the tip of her index finger between her lips and slather on a thick layer of saliva. Before Dipper could register what she was doing, she nonchalantly inserted the moist digit into her brother’s ear. “Totally mature!” she remarked as she twisted her finger to apply the “wet willy” as deeply as possible.

“AAAAAACK!” Dipper squawked, thrashing about in that completely adorkable way that Mabel found to be so cute. “Mabel, that is disgusting!!” he cried out, unable to suppress a laugh as he clawed at his ear, while Mabel basked in the glow of her latest victory in their playful battles of one-upmanship.

When Dipper had dried a satisfactory amount of spit from his ear canal, he gave a pensive look to his sister. “So … what were you thinking about?”

Mabel waved dismissively. “Ahhh, it wasn’t anything! Fuggetaboutit!”

Dipper examined her face closely. “Mabellllllll …” he accused, scolding her for obviously lying to him.

After a quick flinch of irritation at her own continued failure to fib effectively, she exhaled. “I’m sorry, Dip! I just … I can’t stop wonderin’ … you always wanted to go to a nerd school. It was always your dream to go to a place like MIT, and you were actually accepted to Caltech.” She lowered her eyes. “Do you really want to go to CalArts? Or did you just apply … because I want to go there?”

Dipper shrugged easily. “Hey, I’ve always wanted to make a science and paranormal TV show, remember? If I can get the skills and experience to get really good, maybe self-produce my program and publish it on YouTube, get some subscribers, that’s about the perfect way to jump-start my career in that direction. I might not get the chance to ever do it again in the future.” His shrug deepened, and he grinned guiltily. “And ... the thought being able to stay close to you at the same time … I guess it was a nice motivation, too.”

His sister didn’t look mollified. Dipper realized with a start that he had pretty much confirmed Mabel's fear.

He tried to explain more seriously. “Okay … I guess I have kind of changed my goals … and yeah, it’s because of you. But look, I think I can be good at this program, and I think I’m going to like it! And even if I’m wrong, nothing is going to happen with school that can’t be fixed. Even if I’ve really misjudged this, even if this plan is a big mistake … I can always re-apply to another school and start again with a more technical program the following year.” He leaned in to kiss her temple sweetly. “But Mabel, being near you is really important to me, too. More important than anything! And if I have to change my plans a bit to make that happen, then I have to do it! It's a choice I'm happy to make!”

Mabel’s eyes misted over. “You sure you’re not gonna resent me?”

“How could I?” he answered without hesitation, gently taking her hand in his own and clinking his glossy ebony NFC ring onto her contrasting ring of gleaming white. Dipper’s Christmas gifts from a few months before were always on their right hands when they were out in public, but as was their habit they had moved them onto their left ring fingers at home. “You’re my Mabel forever,” he murmured quietly. “Remember?”

For a moment, Mabel could do nothing but allow the mist in her eyes to develop into full-fledged tears.

“D’AWWWW!” she finally exclaimed, flinging her arms around Dipper’s neck and pulling her face close to his. Dipper was knocked off his elbows by the lunge, and the twins collapsed onto the mattress as Mabel attacked Dipper’s mouth with her own.

Dipper happily responded, snaking his hands around his sister’s body and squeezing as he returned the kiss. As they sighed and moaned through the passionate liplock, Dipper wanted to get comfortable so they could keep stay pressed together for as long as possible. He relaxed his neck and gently guided both of them downwards so they could rest their heads on the bed.

They had forgotten about their laptops until they both bumped their skulls down onto their respective keyboards. Mabel grunted impatiently, glaring up at her screen at the “Reply-to” field on her email program, where random characters were now littered. “Ah, 'Bleeblephlepitappleschneblitz’ to you, too!” she grumbled, hurriedly pulling herself from Dipper so she could slap the screen of her MacBook down. In one smooth motion she stretched down to put the computer on the floor, then smirked and coquettishly posed for her brother, laying on her side facing him.

Grinning at Mabel’s enthusiasm, Dipper didn’t even close the lid of his own computer. He grabbed the big Dell by its front corner with one hand and swung it over to his desk, then turned back to Mabel and gently placed his palm on her cheek.

“A whole new part of our lives begins after this summer,” Dipper murmured tenderly, the smile on his face growing. “And now we know we get to do it together, same as always.” He blinked and shook his head slightly, adoration for the love of his life plainly written all over him. “How did I get so lucky to have you?”

Mabel sniffed and felt her eyes moisten, her brother’s sap never failing to turn on her waterworks. It made it hard for her to force a sassy retort. “That’s not luck,” she replied suavely. “That’s ‘The Power of Mabel’, and it works in ways you can’t imagine!”

“Yeah?” Dipper breathed, gulping as Mabel leaned forward and began nuzzling his neck. “I think I have an okay imagination!”

The nuzzle turned into a soft bite, and Dipper drew a shuddering breath as his eyes closed.

“Buster,” Mabel murmured into Dipper’s ear, “imagination is my department! And I’m gonna show you a little of how my imagination works!”

The twins proceeded to celebrate their good fortune. Their sleepwear was quickly disposed of, and over the course of the following hour, they used their bodies to fully demonstrate the love they felt for one another. Ecstatic noises escaped from their throats, moans and cries that were stifled by each others’ mouths. They whispered expressions of love and endless devotion to each other, staring deeply into one another’s eyes as they approached their climaxes. They gave everything they were to each other, writhing together passionately, their heaving bodies merged in gentle caresses and desperate clutches. Finally, exhausted and satisfied, they snuggled together and drifted quickly to sleep, basking in the knowledge that they were free and secure to love one another, despite their taboo relationship.

The bedrooms were Dipper’s and Mabel’s sanctuaries. For over a year, their parents had allowed them to continue their affair, reluctantly acknowledging the twins’ love for one another. The conditions set for this arrangement were that the twins would always use birth control, they would restrict their attention to each other to within their home, and that for the sake of their parents they would be discreet in the house. The twins knew this arrangement was more than fair, that they were being shown far more understanding and tolerance than they had any right to expect before they were discovered. They had genuine gratitude to their parents, and never wanted to disrespect them. Because they knew that it would make their mother and father really uncomfortable if they flaunted their relationship, they always tried to be as quiet as they could be. As long as the young couple kept their lovemaking to themselves within their rooms, they knew they were safe.

Or so they thought.

On the evening of this college acceptance celebration, Dipper did one specific thing differently when he and Mabel were together in his room. It was an unremarkable action. There was no reason for Dipper to have thought anything about it.

When he had wanted his laptop out of the way and off of the bed, he did not take the time to close the lid and put it to sleep. He simply moved it quickly to his desk.

As a result, the computer was open and active, its screen facing the direction that Dipper had left it when he abruptly placed it there.

Which meant the laptop’s webcam was pointed directly at Dipper’s bed.

And as the twins made love, oblivious to anything other than themselves, the laptop’s network activity light was flashing constantly the entire time.

So I hope you can see where I’m going here: this story is not going to be typical Pinecest. I will be delving into some very uncomfortable places, and I imagine this fic will not be everyone’s cup of tea. You are hereby forewarned.

That said, I hope that you trust me that I’m going to do my best to write an interesting and dramatic story, and that my primary focus remains the incredible relationship dynamic between Dipper and Mabel. I may push the envelope, but I never lose sight of that.

I’ll keep you up to date on when I’m ready to post the rest.

[erhiem]

Already pandemic memorial tattoos are on the rise: sound waves from the last voicemail before undergoing COVID-19 complications; a masked nurse like a god; “I survived a global pandemic and I just got this stupid tattoo.” But the coronavirus also changed how we’re getting tattooed in less obvious ways. A year of trauma has imprinted on us thoughts of solidarity and empathy, and shops and studios flooding in as customers – artists across America with doubling of inquiries and bookings compared to the summer of 2019 – have been a trauma-informed one. The approach is taking hold.

The country’s 20,000 tattoo shops close their doors for months, some all year. With the reopening, they are making up for lost income and postponed appointments. Clinical counselor and trauma therapist Jordan Pickel wasn’t surprised to hear that the Instagram bios of many tattoo artists read “Books Closed” for another reason. Not only did we experience a pandemic, but the global death toll continues to rise. Survivors’ guilt and surrounding anxiety are feelings that settle in the body and stay there, even if we don’t notice them. Covering the body with symbols to see is a form of resistance and an act of recovery after a crisis.

“When something traumatic happens, it can shatter a person’s sense of security or stability, the idea that the world is a just place. Tattoos communicate ‘I have changed’ or ‘my worldview has changed,'” ‘” says Jordan. “Healing from trauma is multi-layered and self-determined, which means you get to decide what your healing process looks like. Getting a tattoo can totally play a role in emotional transformation.”

Photo courtesy of Alicia Chung

“I protect myself by decorating myself. It’s armor,” says Alicia Chung, a 24-year-old art student and accountability facilitator in Vancouver, Canada. Since restrictions were eased last fall, he’s been getting new inks almost every week, often occupied by his growing network of friends in private tattoo studios who run a rotary machine. A lot of his pieces make no sense, and he thinks he might as well be stupid — a spider on his elbow, a mud gun with a halo, a sexy peanut, “fast and furious” above the crotch — but the point is Alicia Chosen them. “It’s my weird, twisted way of gaining autonomy.”

The sudden and complete absence of autonomy is the hallmark of the pandemic era. This is at the root of complaints from anti-mascars and anti-vaxxers. This seemed to be the central conflict – even more powerful than the disease – of the quarantine essays written from vacation homes. Our newfound autonomy in a now-reopened society is stressing us out, creating FOMO in some and a fear of being left out in others. Emphasis on self-determination has always been a reason for getting tattoos, but in the post-pandemic scenario it has taken on new meaning.

“When my studio reopened in August, I was worried that people wouldn’t come,” says Ocean Sing, an artist based in Brooklyn, New York. “But more people wanted tattoos than before the pandemic. I think there was a zest for practicing agency, and I ended up getting tattooed on a lot of designs that people said they wanted for years. “

Psychologically, periods of separation and pause can act as a value reset. “Many of us had never faced the reality of ‘life is short,’ which leads to ‘why not’ decisions,” Jordan explains. For those who had money left over from government stimulus checks after paying rent and debt, getting a tattoo was something exciting.

Part of why Alicia has been under the needle so often is that the restaurant they work at has temporarily closed, the school has gone virtual and parties have been cancelled. They had too much time and too little socialization. “That’s when I can take a little rest or allow myself to rest,” he says. “It got to a point where I didn’t mind spending the money to get them all” [tattoos] Because I’m paying for those four hours to be on the table and get professional service. We become intimate and vulnerable but it maintains this customer relationship because I am paying for their trust and interaction. And the isolated pain of a billion vibrations.”

As social beings, we have suffered the loss of non-pod contact. Ocean could still sketch in lockdown if he had the energy, but couldn’t tell Miyazaki to chat with a stranger about movies while by the bathroom. spirited Away on their back. (“I prefer customs these days because they’re so cooperative,” he explains.) We remembered our third-tier friends, the people we laid eyes on the subway from and the professionals we called expertise. was paid instead.

Photo courtesy of Ocean Sing

“Tattoos are an experience you’ll never forget,” says Detroit artist and shop owner Chrissy the Butcher, who’s engaged anytime in her 13-year career. “You’re nervous, the adrenaline rushing. People want that feeling again. i have designed [my shop] So that it’s so quiet, people can bring their friends… there’s a vibe to it.”

According to Jordan, physical intimacy is an important part of restoration even after trauma. “Being around other people is a way that we co-regulate, which means our bodies go back into a sense of groundedness and security. It’s not something we really do on our own. ” For artists who see themselves as healers, this understanding comes first.

Jude Le Tronick specializes in flora and fauna – as nature was “a major healer” in his life – and does freehand blackwork exclusively from private studios established in Seattle. “Freehanding is for me and for the client. I think it’s a respectful process to be fully present.” Judd, which provides free scar cover-up tattoo services to survivors of domestic or sexual violence, believes that tattooists are not therapists, but still have stories of inner pain emanating from their clients. There should be room for

In Tamara Santibanez’s phenomenal manifesto/guidebook/love letter Could this be magic? tattooing as emancipation, published in March and developed from discussion groups conducted during the pandemic, they claim that a tattoo shop has the potential to be a significant site of community building and change. Historically, that ability has been undermined by a masculine culture lacking tenderness. There’s a dispute between street shops and DIY private studios, between artists asking you for consent to shave and between artists who photograph your lower back while you’re oblivious. Lily, 20, knew that for a memorial tattoo of her cousin who died by suicide during the quarantine, she wanted to patronize a queer-led shop and get a tattoo done by a non-male artist. “When I was doing this I didn’t have to worry about anyone maybe attacking me,” she says.

We are in a unique moment of systemic change and the impact of the pandemic on the future of tattoo spaces is beginning to show. For many, this is taking a trauma-informed direction; For others, a selfish fight-or-flight. Pat Fish has been tattooing for 37 years, and she estimates that the dozen tattoo studios around the Santa Barbara Valley have shrunk to six since Covid hit. “I think everyone else is advertising on Craigslist that they’ll be visiting a house, a completely unwell condition. The major effect of the pandemic is that people realized ‘I’m going to have to inspect me once a year. Why should I pay $380 to the health department?’ They are not taking their responsibility as an agent of change seriously.”

“The old thing was you were grassroots because you want someone randomly walking to hear the sound, buzzzz, and to intrigue in the door,” Pat continues. “Now I think, ‘I don’t want you to move, who are you?’ If I’m going to have face-to-face contact with people, let it be that.

A safe space requires acknowledging the dynamic force between the tattooer and the client. When Ocean holds a stencil, for example, they tell the client it’s not a big deal to move or replace, they won’t go crazy. “When I was getting my first tattoo, I was afraid to ask for what I wanted. Even if you’re not traumatized, it’s a scary thing to be in a situation where a stranger might notice your presence. Changes forever.”

Getting a tattoo has always been scary for some people. Jade Bell is a Los Angeles tattoo artist and illustrator who grew up seeing her mother being deprived of shops for being a black woman. When they found an aspiring artist, they weren’t necessarily trained appropriately. “I literally saw a girl give my mom a keloid scar because she didn’t know how to work with darker skin tones,” Jade says.

America’s “plague years” included one of the largest protest movements in the country’s history, making it impossible to close the ongoing racial count. This resonated throughout the tattoo community, as Instagram infographics circulated resources for inking various skin pigments and white artists were singled out for a culturally appropriation flash.

Photo courtesy of Chrissy the Butcher

“People started to realize they had no black art [tattoo] collection,” says Jade. “I asked my partner, ‘Hey, can you name five Blacks’ [tattoo] artist’s?’ we could not. ‘What about five famous tattoo models who are black?’ We couldn’t think of anyone at all.”

Luckily Jade is a Virgo, so she was fearless at the idea of ​​changing the culture herself. “I like to represent myself in the things I love. I had never seen black women drawn in the portrayal style that I see other women drawn all the time. I’m four-eyed black girls.” I am developing my universe.”

Chrissy the Butcher lives and works in Detroit, America’s largest black-majority city. Over the past year, she has seen ideas about race and society make their way onto the body. “Tattoos help people heal from generational trauma. It causes you to research the imagery presented by our ancestors. I see people getting African symbols with the turn of 2021, and I’m getting that tattoo. I’m building what I love and know, anything that relates to the black female form.”

A common counterargument is ‘Why remind yourself of your hardship on your body?’ “I’m thinking about it anyway,” says Kansas City physician Jesse Lee. “My trauma defines a lot of who I am and I was offended by it. Now I’m really happy [for it] Because I love who I am now.”

In February, Jesse got a bicep tattoo of a plant blooming from a can of tomatoes. For years, she pointed to her “nonsense childhood” without actually addressing it. When someone described her trauma to her as a jar of rotten tomatoes that gained more and more pressure over time, until the lid burst and the juices spilled everywhere, Jesse summed it up in a poem. Changed. After a one-year hiatus, in which she finally stuck with therapy and did things she wouldn’t allow herself to do as a fat woman – like roller skating, wearing crop tops, and considering her body a canvas – She was ready to make it a permanent reminder.

“People have experienced more trauma in the last five or so years than I think we have ever experienced collectively. Just by going to the Internet we are constantly digesting other people’s traumas,” Jesse says. A tattoo becomes a positive part of your story.”

It is beautiful to see collective grief metamorphose when we heal individually. “So much healing from trauma involves humor, at least for me,” Alicia says. “People ask me what I’ll think of my sexy Peanuts tattoo in 30 years. Maybe I look back and say to myself, ‘You could probably love yourself a little more, apparently it’s yours’ There was a way to compete. I think it’s nice to have a mark of remembrance for being a wrinkled old woman with a portrait made during a crazy time in the world.”

Follow iD on Instagram and TikTok for more culture.

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The post The tattoo artists healing our collective trauma post-pandemic appeared first on Spicy Celebrity News.

[orbemnews]

Brooke Baldwin: These women inspired me in the year since Covid-19 knocked me flat Ha. Through all the body aches and sweat-soaked sheets and golf-ball sized glands, I learned a lot about vulnerability and connection. Being sick and weak was awful, but it did give me clarity about what I value in life. I also considered myself one of the lucky ones — I never struggled to breathe, I had access to great medical care and would ultimately come through without long-term health effects. I never had to add to the stress of the doctors and nurses in hospitals doing heroes’ work. And I am very aware of my privilege as a White woman, in a country where communities of color are disproportionately affected by this awful virus. But there was something in that essay I left out, and now I’m coming clean. One of the reasons I was able to kick Covid-19’s ass was because I had a support network of women, a sisterhood — or what I call a “huddle.” Let me back up: The year leading up to my getting Covid-19 I had been crisscrossing the country on weekends interviewing trailblazing women for a book. (It’s called “Huddle: How Women Unlock Their Collective Power.”) Part journalism, part memoir, it examines the way women team up to give one another the support, strength and inspiration they need to meet the challenges of daily life — and to change the world. It’s a special kind of bonding and empowerment that I call the huddle. As someone who was very lonely in my 20s and into my 30s, I learned to huddle by activating my own small tribe of women who stood with me every step of the way. They were with me (virtually) during Covid-19 as well. I knew, as I fought that virus, that all of these women had my back and that I was truly never alone. After I recovered and got back to work, the pandemic raged on and I paid extra close attention to women. I started to see how women, and especially women of color, were disproportionately affected by this deadly virus. I noticed that women of all races, ages, classes and backgrounds were carrying a great burden in getting us through the pandemic. They were mothers, caretakers, breadwinners, school teachers and (suddenly) homeschool teachers, nurses, doctors, essential workers and activists. And even as women are going to bat for our entire country, more than two million of them have lost their jobs or been forced to leave their profession to school their children and care for their families. Many are less able to care for themselves: According to a report released earlier this month by the Kaiser Family Foundation, more women than men are skipping their health care services and getting sicker as a result. Yet even in these dark circumstances, women are holding one another up. They are huddling. One need not look far to find them. The bold circle of women who drew up the Marshall Plan for Moms are advocating for direct monthly payments to mothers to compensate them for their unseen, unpaid labor. And women everywhere working on the front lines of our national crisis are becoming especially vocal about the mandate to take care of one another. I checked back in with nurse Emily Fawcett at Lenox Hill Hospital. I’d interviewed her the very week I got sick, and she shared with me the incredible demands she and other nurses have endured throughout the pandemic. Nurses are what Fawcett called “natural huddlers.” So together they confronted, for example, the day that the hospital oxygen supply ran low and they had to race to every room to switch out oxygen tanks. And the day Fawcett witnessed five patients die alone — without family members allowed in the room. “Some days I felt so isolated and overwhelmed, but my huddle of close girlfriends truly gave me the strength, courage, love and support to keep going,” Fawcett told me. They gave her daily moral support via group text, and made sure she didn’t have to go to the grocery store a single time for three months, even regularly providing lunch for all 30 of the hospital staff members on her floor at work. Meanwhile, mothers all over the country have borne the brunt of school closures and domestic caretaking — but in so many cases it did not stop them from helping each other. Loraya Harrington-Trujillo, a South Orange, New Jersey, mother of two young children was struggling to homeschool her kindergartner, manage a 3-year-old and help her live-in mother care for her father, who suffers from Parkinson’s disease — all while working from home at a full-time job on the leadership team of a startup. It didn’t take long for her situation to become untenable. “Something had to give, and it couldn’t be my family,” she said. She made the painful decision to leave her job, knowing how difficult it would be to reenter the job market. “I never expected to be someone who stepped back from my career,” she explained. Like so many other American women, she had no choice. In Suwanee, Georgia, Shanita Cooper, mother to a 6-year-old, lost her job as a nurse just before the pandemic began when the small home-health-care company where she worked folded. As someone who always “makes a way out of no way,” Cooper poured money and energy into her wedding décor business until she could find another nursing position. But when schools closed, Cooper found herself in an impossible situation. She had to be available all day to help her daughter with virtual homeschooling, which meant she couldn’t possibly take on long nursing shifts. With large gatherings suddenly restricted by the state, her wedding business went under. “I grew up poor in rural Georgia, the oldest of six children, but this was one of the hardest moments of my life,” she said. To add insult to injury, she was denied unemployment benefits, due to her status as an independent contractor and because she had submitted her application for assistance during the summer months when school wasn’t in session for her daughter. Devastated and depressed, she found support from the other “mamas” in her circle. “A lot of us had to step away from work. We were all struggling together and helping each other,” she said. “If someone had a job interview, someone else would babysit her kids. If someone needed gas in their car, someone else would give them $20.” When Cooper was featured in a Vogue article in March about the invisible crisis among mothers during the pandemic, she read about Loraya Harrington-Trujillo, whose story was also featured in the article. The two women formed a connection and Harrington-Trujillo activated her huddle to help lift up Cooper. “After reading the Vogue article, so many friends reached out to me and said how unfair and terrible [Cooper’s] story was,” Harrington-Trujillo told me. “I texted them all back and said what are you willing to do to help?” In the days that followed, Harrington-Trujillo rounded up more than 50 people who sent money, news about opportunities, networking connections and moral support to Cooper, allowing her to catch up on bills and renew some of her nursing-related certifications that had lapsed during the time she had been unemployed. Harrington-Trujillo, who has spent her career working for companies that bolster women and girls, told me that “investing in women will pay tenfold into their communities.” To her point, while she was rounding up support for Cooper, Cooper was busy offering help to other women across her state who shared her frustration with navigating the complicated system for applying for pandemic-related unemployment assistance. Cooper started a Facebook group to share what she’d learned, answering questions and advising other women who were experiencing similar difficulties. And even though Cooper has yet to receive any much-deserved assistance from the state, she has helped countless other women successfully apply for and receive their benefits. Of the common ground she found with Cooper, Harrington-Trujillo told me: “We are both beneficiaries of women who have invested in us — through sponsorship, donation and emotional support — and we’ve both been actively reinvesting in others as well.” This kind of huddling, I learned, is not something we women do only in times of crisis. Huddling is also a part of our legacy — a secret to our success in the workplace, the source of historic changes in society and the place where we derive so much joy. As I interviewed all the other extraordinary women for my book, they often generously asked me about my own life, career and voice. It was a great blessing but also a painful challenge because I realized I couldn’t hold space with these women and not be as brave as possible in my own life. As dearly as I’ve held onto my platform (and really, dream job) at CNN, I’ll be leaving CNN in a few weeks. Now that it’s time for me to take a leap, I realize how a year after feeling so terribly vulnerable, I’m now bolstered by — and have drawn courage from — the women across the country who shared their brave stories with me. How inspiring it is to know so many of us have each other’s backs. Source link Orbem News #Baldwin #Brooke #BrookeBaldwin:ThesewomeninspiredmeintheyearsinceCovid-19knockedmeflat-CNN #Covid19 #flat #Inspired #knocked #opinions #Women #Year

[thisismyjourney2022]

“I wasn't very kind to myself for a really long time and I'm trying to learn that now. So do what you need to do, and push yourself, but also forgive yourself if you fuck it up, or if you're struggling.”

If there was ever a quote that hit my heart and soul at a particular moment in my life, then this is it. 

My goal for the summer was to focus on me, myself and I. I stepped back from social media because I became way to focused on the virtual world, and if I got likes from certain people. I was more involved in the virtual world than I was in the real world and it was becoming unhealthy. Truthfully, it was causing me extreme anxiety and really affecting me. I’ve been off of it for two months and I can say with all honesty, that I do not miss it at all. 

I wanted to use the summer and get back that fight that I had when I started this journey back last Jan. I wanted to find that girl again. The girl who took this journey and ran with it(not literally, because lets face it, your girl doesn’t run). I wanted to delve deep into my heart and find what it is that I really wanted and do everything in my power to get there.

My mind and my heart have been through a lot over the last few months. Quarentine wasn’t good to me(as it wasn’t to anyone else). I lost myself, and my goals and what I wanted to accomplish. I allowed my inner demons to resurface and show themselves, after I worked so hard on beating them down. 

My self confidence plummeted, I just straight up stopped caring. I went to Barnes & Nobles and spent $100 on self help books. I was going to devote my time and energy on reading those books and finding me again. Well guess what, those books are now taking up a full shelf on my book shelf, untouched. I constantly reached out to people. seeking advice, always asking what is wrong with me. Expecting others to fix me with words. I’m thankful for those people in my life, who always had the words that I needed to hear in that moment. 

However, over the past few weeks, I’m realizing, that even though I know those people care about me, my problems and my sadness about me, are not their problems to fix. Of course, I know that they will be there whenever I need help, but to really understand where my mind is, and why I’m so hard on myself, I needed to dig deep down and figure this out on my own. No one is in my head besides me(and trust me, more times than not, I want to escape it, but I can’t). Most of the time, I have a hard time explaining how I am feeling, because my mind is so jumbled up with a million thoughts. 

I’ve been trying to write this blog entry for a month, but everytime I sat down to write it, my mind became so overwhelmed with all my thoughts, that I gave up.

One of my biggest problems is just that. I give up. When I started this journey last Jan., I put my heart and soul into everything I did. My workouts, my food, my blogging. I was doing awesome. I felt better, I was happier, I smiled, I liked looking in the mirror. Back in April, when I discovered junk food again, a switch was flipped and I gave up. I stopped caring. I felt like I failed and was a disappointment. Not only a disappointment to me, but to everyone else who was along on this journey with me. 

My best friend came home from London 2 weeks ago, and I was able to see her this past Thursday. After I left her house, I texted her and my exact words to her were, “I almost bailed(can’t lie) because I was embarrassed of how I looked.” Reading that, at this moment, makes me want to cry. This is my best friend. My friend since we were 5 years old. The one who has seen my ugly cries, my happy tears and everything in between. The mere fact that I was embarrassed is just so sad to me. 

Her response, “Never bail on me because how you look. I honestly didn’t have one thought about it. Love you(and seeing you) no matter what!”

Over the past year and a half, I’ve been very open and very public with my journey. I’ve posted my pictures, my goals, my triumphs and disappointment. I have extremely vulnerable and honest. I did it all for me, but a lot of it I did it because I wanted to help be a voice for people, who didn’t feel like they had one. I wanted to show others, that with hard work and determination you could achieve anything. I wanted to help people who didn’t think they could help themselves. I wanted to be a safe place for people to express their thoughts and their feelings, and know that no matter what type of journey they were on themselves, they were and never are alone. 

Do I regret doing this, and being this open and honest. No. Because I felt like without doing it, I reached a lot of people. People who I would not have talked to prior, reached out to me about it. A connection was formed with people, and bonds that I had with others grew because of my journey.

I do however, sometimes(sorta)have a tiny ounce of regret for being so open. Only for the fact, that I felt like I put a lot of pressure on myself to make sure that I did what my goal was. To show people you could do this. That no matter what life threw at you, or how many times you fell down, you just had to get your butt back up and go again. I felt like a lot of people were counting on me, and for the last few months, I’ve felt like an absolute failure. I felt like I let myself down(Which I could live with, been there, done that x100). but I couldn’t deal with the idea of letting everyone else down. Which, I know in reality, in like real life reality, that is not the case at all. That those who really love and care about me would never see me as a failure. But in Chrissie-verse(my own personal universe), I’m a failure to them. I know in my head that the only way I would be seen like that by them is if I really do give up. But yet, I’m still standing(okay, maybe with a limp, but hey at least I’m up).

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my coaches from the gym about how I was having a hard time, and they said they wanted me to write down my 5 whys. 5 whys as to WHY I started this journey in the first time. What made me decide enough was enough.  These were them-

1- to show Ava(my most favorite little human on the face of this earth) that her aunt is a strong woman

2- to erase old memories of wanting to hurt myself from being bullied

3-to not be a burden on anyone as I got older

4- to find confidence regarding my body and to not feel “fat shamed” anymore

5- to find love.

The last one, I think, is the one that has most affected me, I’m 33 years old and have never been in a relationship. It really is something that has affected me and made me feel like I’m not worthy. I feel like I put a lot of pressure on myself to loose the weight so that I could find love. But what if, WHAT if, the love I want to find isn’t with someone, but what if the love I am looking for is loving myself?  Why is it so hard for me to accept love(even if it is love towards myself) yet I have enough love in my soul for EVERYONE else, that I could drown in it? Why is finding the love for yourself to hard?

Writing this entry, has given me some clarity. It’s literally all over the place, but hey, welcome to my brain. Try living in it for a few min, you’ll had a headache and be exhausted in a matter of minutes. 

Okay, well I think that’s enough writing for tonight. This entry has taken me 4 hours to write. and MAN, does my mind hurt lol.  

To those who have stuck through, I thank you. To those just joining, welcome. I hope my thoughts and feelings and transparency, can help you when you feel like you are lost.

xoxo

Chrissie

[outlyingthoughts]

My mom was right, or a story on my privileges and microaggressions: Jul 20

Sometimes, your thoughts appear to meet at a cosmic intersection, everything coinciding and suddenly unlocking another level of understanding about your reality.

The start of Summer 2020 was a cosmic intersection for my reality. From populations around the world finally leading global protests against racism and police brutality, the escalation of Police-state-like situations in France and reading more books like « So you want to talk about race » by Ijeoma Oluo; everything confirmed an uncanny feeling I grew up to have an increased acuity for: my Mom was right, the world around me, despite how privileged I had seemed to be so far, was viciously racist and being blind to the racism I suffered from didn’t make it unreal.

Growing up in France with the myth of colorblindness, « because we are all one, indivisible and equal » in the eyes of the Republic and the Laïcité, makes it easy to deny the existence of institutionalized racism. French secularism, as the central pillar of our civic culture, provides a logic for our republic to conceal its racism under the soft blanket of a republican model of integration.

The French government officially rejects both censuses and data collection based on ethnic, religious or linguistic nature of groups. As such our national social cohesion is solely relying on the idealistic dream that from the moment that we have a French nationality, it grants us all an absolute equality in treatment, legally ensured by our all-mighty constitution.

Don’t get me wrong: I loved this principle that the state should be outlawed from seeing race and obliged by the law to treat us all equally. I loved attending my civic education classes and having a program that preached that we were all included because what mattered was that we were all French before anything else. I loved feeling like it was true thanks to my already existing privileges. I’ve had the luxury to believe in this illusion, all of it, until I had to navigate the « adult world » on my own, face racism with my own eyes and discovered how facts were radically different from our nicely designed civic education program.

My privileges allowed me to swim in sweet denial of the social reality of our country. But what happens if you're not French? What happens if you’re not perceived as French by the rising extreme right wing and populist political parties, by the people in the street, by a large portion of the voters in local and national elections ? What happens when the social reality doesn’t match those beautiful principles of equality and both the public discourse and authorities turn blind to systemic injustice ?

The problem is that not every French kid of color has the luxury to feel included and valued within the French society. When adults outside of your house are biased towards people that look like you, whether it be in the street, in fancy shops or even teachers at school; when politicians and people in the news are framing people from your ethnic or religious group or even from the neighborhood you come from as dangers, criminals or frauds of the system; how can you feel French before all, equal and included ?

Unfortunately, when sociologists and researchers are interested in studying this phenomenon, it is virtually impossible for them to do so since such data and measures are deemed inherently illegal in the government’s eyes. Even minorities asking for acknowledgment of systemic discrimination and inequalities through ethnic and/or religious demographic statistics are thus called out for being separatist and/or communitarist, all of this based on the adoption of the Law on « Informatique et liberté » in January 1978 which prevented public authorities from collecting data based on racial, ethnic or religious criteria.

Since then, even laws aiming at allowing the study of diversity, social integration and discrimination have been deemed anti-constitutional. As such, there is no way in France to account for socio-economic inequalities of ethnic and religious minorities, which -of course- makes it easier to deny their existence since they legally cannot be accounted for and studied.

This lack of acknowledgment does translate into French society and the way many French people think -regardless of their skin color and religion, even though more regularly among people of caucasian appearance-. Since I started growing more and more aware of the insidious racism around me and calling it out, I received backlash on many topics like cultural appropriation or reversed racism and a lot of denying of racial issues in our country.

In France, like in many Western countries with large non-white populations, many people refer to the existence of a so-called « reversed racism » when minorities start to call out systemic racism in our societies. So much that even some of my own relatives have thrown this term in my face when I started arguing against them on institutional racism in our country.

Sadly, in France the inability to account for discrimination, inequalities and even violence against minorities makes it virtually impossible to prove with numbers how rare what they refer to as « reversed racism » is compared to the urgency to address the too common racism against people of colors.

In the context of social justice, the goal is to highlight the institutional character of racism in our societies. Reversed racism in this context does not exist because white people in Western societies do not suffer from systemic inequalities and discrimination. Because last time I checked, Caucasians looking people in France do not risk institutionalized racial profiling and violence by the police or discrimination in employment because of « reversed racism ».

To have family members, who can witness how racism plays out in my everyday life and still believe in reversed racism comes to me as a denial of the experience of people of color when facing racism. It is like turning the cheek to the other side and say « yes you may suffer because of racism but please let’s not focus on your pain because I found a concept that fits me and all my unchecked privileges and allows me to deny the experience of a whole part of the population justifying it with a form of racism that does not impact my everyday life and doesn’t exist on a systemic scale »: News flash this is extremely insulting.

These forms of insidious white privileges in people’s discourse; to be able to be blind to racism and deny its existence because it does not affect your everyday life are microaggressions to people of color, denials of our pain and prevent a fruitful debate on how to solve the issue of institutionalized racism in our societies.

On my own privileges

My mom was right, in the tender years of my childhood I was privileged enough to virtually not see a difference between me and the other white kids (apart from the hairstyles I couldn’t do or that I was tanner than them regardless of the seasons).

My paternal grandfather was white and mayor of his town, I loved going to his workplace as much as I could, always showered in compliments and candies. Sometimes I would look up at the portrait of the current president hung in a big ceremonial room in the townhall and despite knowing that my parents didn’t approve of him, still I felt so at home within the bounds of our republic.

And while such privileges didn’t lead me to be « colorblind », it did make me blind to a large part of the discrimination I suffered from when I finally old enough to face it myself. I was convinced to be living in a post-racist society, convinced that only a minority of uneducated countryside freaks who had never seen a black person could be racist. I was convinced of all of this because I lived in a country with such beautiful laws and principles on equality and republican inclusion that it seemed unimaginable that the contrary could be real.

When my black mother was trying to make me notice micro-aggressions and subtly racist situations from our everyday life, I was denying everything (“it’s not racism mom, it’s -enter whatever excuse I could make up for them-). Sometimes I’d even make fun of her for being so imaginative and overly sensitive. Worse, I would go crazy with my democratic propaganda when she’d tell me she couldn’t be bothered to go vote because she did not feel included or represented in the elections. While I still condemn not voting because (forgetting the debate on whether it is rational or not) it is both a right and a privilege that isn’t respected by the autocratic leader in my maternal country, now I also understand my mom’s stand, feeling ignored and not included in political debates. 

Today, I’m calling myself out for blindly believing in this integrative republican lie despite my own mother’s truth. When first generation but also second, third or even fourth generation immigrants are massively deemed as frauds of the system, it is logical that they have a reluctance to waste their time and resources on getting informed and involved in a system that pisses on them while still exploiting with joy their labor for the benefits of the national economy.

On Microaggressions

After reading a couple books and many essays on race like « So you want to talk about race », I felt discouraged as the wanna-be essayist I am. I didn't want to become yet another mixed essayist since we all apparently had the same stories on the way our bodies had been shamed, fetishized and sexualized whether it is our big butts, big hair, the same stories on exceptionalism and belittling compliments we receive, either making us exceptions of the group we identify as (« you’re pretty for a black girl ») or even categorizing our successes solely as a result of affirmative action (when I was applying to one of the top universities in Political Science in France, a friend of mine who was also a person of color told me that I was sure to get in because I was a great and lucky token black person).

Such discourses are so normalized and internalized that as I entered adulthood, I found myself sharing with my Caucasian father my deep fears of making it in life only because I was very often the only black or person of color in the circles and institutions I evolved within. Luckily, after a year of attending university abroad, I recovered confidence in my intelligence and abilities; but still had this fear when writing about my experience to not want to be seen as yet another angry black woman. But now the cosmic intersection struck me like a truck in my face: we all have the same story, not because we are whiny individuals and all the same but because everywhere people of color are suffering from the same discrimination and/or micro-aggressions.

What I had interpreted as my non-originality which would make me unable to succeed as a writer is just yet another proof of the systemic nature of racism and the discriminating ways of thinking and standards in our societies which we all suffer from.

Somehow, I found myself wishing at times that I had been an outcast like Ijeoma, but sadly I was socialized to match and please people’s expectations. When puberty and reality hit, I found a way to fold away myself and straighten the black out of me to fit the mold: whether it be in school, in my mostly white friend circles, in my behavior or appearance.

For the longest time from the start of my teenage years, I began internalizing all the ways societies and people told me that my “blackness” was ugly. How my hair was too big or deemed disgusting, how my fellow classmates saw me as a milking cow for starting puberty earlier than most girls. It came to a point where I genuinely believed that I could never be seen as beautiful if I let my natural bouncy curls and curvy shapes out. I was in denial of how much daily microaggressions had destroyed my self-esteem and standards of beauty.

Micro-aggressions are actions or remarks that are received as subtle or non-intentional forms of discrimination against minorities and/or marginalized group. An example of micro-aggression is someone telling you that you’ve never been arrested by the police because “you’re not that black for a black person” or that your hair is “impractical” and annoying because African hair requires more time and care to be maintained.

The problem with such remarks isn’t necessarily the intent or the way the person who made it thinks about the micro-aggression but rather the way it is received and hurts the receiver. Often times, when we do dare to stand up for ourselves against a micro-aggression, we are being told the same things I use to tell my own mother: that we are too sensitive or easily offended (especially if you’re from my generation I’m convinced you know the pleasure to hear older generations complain that we’re “a generation of offended sheep”) and only now I can understand how disrespectful and unsensitive my privileges made me towards my mom. Because I was so blinded by legal formalities and public discourse on the way society was supposed to be based on our laws, I was completely disregarding my own mother’s experience and struggle and some of you still do. That’s what unchecked privileges do.

But the violence of micro-aggressions generally isn’t rooted in the action or statement or its intent per say. Rather, most of the time, it’s in the way they are enshrined in wider systemic discrimination as repetitive and accumulated attacks on an individual across different moments and perpetrators. It turns an action which might appear inoffensive to the perpetrator (like touching someone’s hair) but will be taken as something extremely disrespectful to the receiver.

Growing up in France, hair on TV ads and the hair products on supermarket shelves were different than mine, the same way my friends at school could all have those flowy ponytails which I felt very sad my hair type didn’t allow I couldn’t have (until I begged my mom to relax my hair and she agreed when I was 7 because being a kid of a divorced couple she couldn’t take care of my hair for the whole month of summer at my father’s). But in any case, my relationship to my hair was the first instance where I felt part of a “minority” let’s say.

Getting into middle school and puberty, of course everybody gets criticized, shamed or made fun of for their difference: it’s part of teenage years. But when minor teenage bullying cross-cuts a subject which society marginalizes you for (as futile as hair and physical appearance can) and which throughout your life you’re going to get comments and/or random people’s opinions on all the time. All of this tends to weigh on one’s mind and if all the while, it is being deemed unattractive by the male gaze, then this innocent teenage bullying suddenly makes you, from a young age, internalize racism and hatred towards your own self, with the courtesy of mainstream western beauty standards.

(And yes, still today some men that I’ve frequented have dared to tell me they “didn’t mind my hair curly but they preferred my hair straight because they think I’m much prettier with” DID I ASK YOU FOR YOUR OPINION ON MY HAIR?)

I hope now it is pretty straightforward, why when my relatives tell me that my hair is impractical, I go bonkers. I’m simply sick of society, of men, of my teenage years, everything that made me internalize white beauty standards and told me that my natural appearance was not enough, not practical or not fit for them. And don’t even get me started on the ones that feel entitled enough to touch a part of my body without asking for my consent (here, only, my hair but still): Don’t touch my hair nor feel entitled to give me a judgement on my appearance.

Lastly, to put it all perspective, would you go around touching people’s ass and telling them: “well I don’t really like your butt, I'd rather you wear shapewear to change it” ?

Sources:

https://theconversation.com/how-french-law-makes-minorities-invisible-66723

https://www.legifrance.gouv.fr/affichCodeArticle.do?idArticle=LEGIARTI000026268247&cidTexte=LEGITEXT000006070719

https://www.lemonde.fr/les-decodeurs/article/2019/03/19/la-difficile-utilisation-des-statistiques-ethniques-en-france_5438453_4355770.html

Oluo, I. (2018). So you want to talk about race. New York, NY : Seal Press

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[fatbadjah]

To those whom I’ve disappointed and to those to whom I am disappointing...

On Monday I demonstrated that common sense, good judgment, and I are not always the best friends.  I learned about a social event that I was not involved in, and I felt hurt, left out, emotionally neglected and replied out of pain.

I hurt others in a moment of weakness, and for that, I apologize and ask forgiveness.

For me, one of the most iconic images of the 90s was a clip from Blind Melon’s “No Rain” video. In it, a little girl in a bee costume is ridiculed after a dance performance, and spends the song wandering the street…again facing derision and ridicule from strangers. Then, at one point in the song, she sees a gated field. In it, she sees others in bee costumes, dancing around. She pushes through the gate and joyously cavorts—having found “her” people.

I’ve come to define these moments of social connection “bee girl” moments. Most of us have them—especially in the furry fandom.

Like most, I was interested in anthropomorphic animals since I was a child. After reading The Wind in the Willows in third grade, I wanted to join that created family of Rat, Mole, Toad, and Badger. In the mid 80s, I saw Animalympics on HBO until I knew the songs by heart. Likewise, seeing Rock and Rule on the Movie Channel in early 1986 not only furthered my interest in anthropomorphics, but expanded my musical palate out a bit. I started collecting comic books in 1987, as quarter bins were bursting with remnants of the Black-And-White boom—many of which were anthropomorphic attempts to become the next TMNT. When I played role playing games or video games, I gravitated towards any animal-themed races, classes, or characters.

Frankly, I thought I was weird and the only one.

In December 1993, I saw a clip of an event called Confurence on the then-new Sci-Fi Channel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iodRjbBKB0k). For the first time, I knew that there were others out there like me…that I wasn’t alone.

Florida State University, like many universities in the early 90s, restricted their student Internet access to engineering and computer science students. If you weren’t in one of those disciplines, the assumption was that you didn’t need to access the Internet. Of course, once I’d seen the Internet, that didn’t stop me. I’d learned a little UNIX trick that allowed me to access a raw Telnet in 1992, but I didn’t know what USENET was until January of 1994, when FSU began selling Garnet accounts to students—a basic Internet account with Telnet, email, a few other early 90s goodies, and USENET access. One Friday night, as I was diving through the sea of alt and soc groups, I found one called alt.fan.furry. The group was buzzing about an event called “Confurence” which was happening that weekend in Orange County, California.

I had my “bee girl” moment. I soaked up every zine I could find. Alt.fan.furry was my new hangout. I had an account on Furrymuck and explored more.

I felt like I belonged somewhere. I made a trip in January 1995 to Confurence Six and soon connected with virtual friends.

I wanted to get more involved. I wanted to give back. I didn’t want to just be a passive fandom participant. I put my art out there—though I knew I would be mocked and ridiculed for my lack of skill (I was). I started the first openly gay furry zine, Ten Furcent, in 1995.I published a comic book, Milikardo Knights, in 1997. In 1999, when Ed Zolna’s Mailbox Books folded, I was one of several who tried to open a zine distribution business to fill the void—mine having been Bronzebear Media. And in 2001, I founded Florida’s first furry con, Furry Spring Break, which folded after an internal coup in late 2001 and became an event you may be familiar with today.

Yet while most (sane and rational) people would have denounced the fandom and moved on, if not taken up ranks with folks like the Burned Furs (whose ranks were pretty much filled with fandom failures who could not adapt to the growing and changing nature of the fandom and began pre-Trump cries of “take back our fandom!”) and becoming toxic and bitter fandom saboteurs, I stayed in to help how I could. I involved myself with the staff of events like Mephit Furmeet, Furry Weekend Atlanta, and Midwest Furfest.

In 2011, I took a break. I finally realized after a social breakdown that I was grinding metal and stepped away. I’d moved to North Carolina in the wake of the Great Recession, and I decided to focus on my career. Thus, for years, I was the guy at the Triangle Area Furries meets who stood off to the sides and only chatted with one or two trusted friends, as I licked my metaphorical wounds from the 90s and 00s.

But I never quit, I never left, I never got bitter, and I never tried to sabotage the fandom. For me, furry fandom was my family. You don’t abandon family because of a few toxic relatives. Like the odd cousin at the family gathering, I just stepped away a bit because the obnoxious aunts and uncles had finally taken their toll.

In 2015, I finally got some forward motion on my career and returned to fandom activities, with MFF 15 being my first con back since 2010. In the summer of 2016, I thought about the fact that there were no cons or large “destination” events in or around Raleigh, in spite of the large community. I talked to an old friend, and in early July 2016, Tarpaw Furmeet was born. We staged a “practice” event in November 2016, which then gave way to events that grew in May and October of 2017. As they grew, we eventually had a staff, with whom I started to bond.  People were friendly to me at the Triangle Area Furries events and actually started to talk to me.

I actually thought that I was “in,” but got blindsided by my social eagerness, as several of you now know.

To really get this, you need to understand a little of my history and romp through some trauma baggage. I was in a family with two emotionally abusive parents. I not only heard the constant barrage of how I was “not good enough” from both, but during their divorce, each specialized their skills by projecting their spousal loathing onto my brother and I.

My mother played the diehard Christian card, completely modernizing the “spare the rod, spoil the child” concept by making my brother and I draft up “contracts” that opened with “PAIN + FEAR = RESPECT” then laid out multiple violation clauses. Usually, the clauses in these contracts varied by my mother’s mood and often had a bad habit of doing so when she’d had a bad day at work.

My father, meanwhile, decided to simply deploy a forever-scarring tactical nuke on a school morning in early 1981. As my mother was helping my brother and I dress, my father came downstairs, looked at us all and said simply “bye guys, have a nice life” before walking out the door. We knew our parents  were divorcing, so my brother and I spent five minutes trying to persuade him to stay—and by “persuade” I meant that my mother held one sibling while the other sibling laid behind the tires of Dad’s Corvette, then swapped places when she would pull the other one from behind the tires. A few hours later, when I had a hysterical breakdown in my third grade classroom, neither my teacher nor principal believed me. I was sent to the office, and the principal called my father’s office to follow up on the “lie.” Upon calling my father’s office, I was told that he’d flown to Acapulco to holiday with the women he was (then) leaving my mother for. My mother at least intervened to back up the “have a nice life” story, because I had to go home since I was a basket case. Dad came back tanned and whored, and acted like nothing had happened—not even an apology.

Since then, I’ve had a nagging fear of abandonment and all purpose fear of letting people get control over me. I’ve tried to address it by simply not letting people connect to me emotionally and living a life of fierce self-sufficiency. I’ve heard “aloof” pushed on to me so many times in my life, I’d have assumed it was my name if I didn’t know better. After all, I figure, everyone leaves me eventually…so why attach to them? Likewise, my other coping mechanism is to just quit when things turned bad—a trend in my early relationships. Imagine that Kermit/Dark Kermit meme: “Things going bad in the relationship… Bail on them before they get to bail on you!”  I tried to not quit a spiraling situation once. I made the mistake of entrenching on Furry Spring Break when the coup’s instigator began to get out of control in mid-2001 and fought suicidal urges for most of 2002 once I’d been ousted.

I’ve been used to being left out of things. It was the hallmark of my adolescence. When it wasn’t a point-blank, mean girls style rejection (no seriously, I got “you cant sit here” in the school lunchroom), the reasons were a bit softer on the blow. “Sorry, we just didn’t think you were interested” or “Sorry but there just wasn’t enough room for you” were the popular go-tos.

Once, when I was fourteen, I let my guards down. My father went to the “country club” church in Flint Michigan, First Pres—the one where the shi shi white people went to escape the lower classes. One afternoon, I got a call from one of the students in “the Pipe,” their Wednesday night youth group. “Hey, can you come to the meeting tonight? We’d love to have you there!”

I was beyond elated. Someone called me to come out. They wanted me out there.Me, worthless, stupid me. When my father got home from work, I told him in no uncertain terms that I had to go to church that night, for the Pipe. When I got there, people were friendly towards me. Then the meeting started. Eventually, one of the leaders came out playing “Sasha Cashachek,” a taunting (yet Christian) Russian femme fatale (it was 1986. Russians and Iranians were stock bad guys then) who was gloating that the Pipe wouldn’t make their ski trip. Eventually, we stopped for snacks, and a few people came up to me during the break.

“So we know you like to ski, and we’ve got a big weekend ski trip scheduled to (some shi shi place I can’t remember) in a month, but we need a few more people to help pay for it! Want to come?”

I told them that I’d already booked with my high school ski club on a trip to Killington, Vermont, and my dad was tapped.

“Oh.” No one talked to me as soon as I’d announced that. Not even a “goodbye” when I left.

Remember that scene in “A Christmas Story” when Ralphie learns that Little Orphan Annie’s important “secret message” was nothing more than an Ovaltine ad? I got the 80s church group version of it.

When I said no to the ski trip, I went back to either being invisible in that church group every Sunday (I never went to another Wednesday night meeting), or I existed only when I wore or did something worthy of social mockery. I never got an invite back to the Pipe.… After that, I shut down. I stopped trying.

Given that I’d taken to emotional avoidance since late childhood, I was used to it. I took jobs in college that kept me working Friday and Saturday nights, so I didn’t have to worry about feeling slighted from collegiate social events, and I always had an excuse when people felt crazy enough to ask me to do something. And as an adult, I became a hermit who spent most weekends alone, playing video games or working. I never kept friends because I didn’t think friends wanted to keep me around. I feel emotionally uncomfortable when people press me into social conversation…unless I’ve been drinking or that weird cluster of neurons has fired that say “we can trust this person Lighten up, badger.”

But I thought that things were going differently in the Triangle. I felt my guards dropping. I didn’t feel that “fuck! Fly now! Flee, fatass! Get small or invisible!” reflex when I talked to people.

So on January 1, 2018, I became aware of a New Years party via Twitter. I saw friends names. I saw friends pictures. And I didn’t even know about it. In a split second, I was caught off guard.

And I felt stupid. I felt like I’d been left out. Knowing that people there were talking about con plans, I had fears of another Furry Spring Break style coup. But most importantly I felt worthless, like I did in childhood and adolescence because I wasn’t good enough to get invited. I felt like I’d made inroads, that people liked me and wanted me around, and I felt foolish for letting my guards down. It was like finding out that the people at the Pipe only wanted me there to make a ski trip happen, and threw me aside as soon as I couldn’t help them do it.

So I made a nudging reply that my invitation must have been lost. I later vented because I felt like all I was good for was making the con happen. Then the messages started piling in…

“No one owes you anything!”

And they were right.

And that was my mistake. I own that. No one has to be my friend, and no one owes me a damned thing. I had thought that because we had bonded as a staff, because we had broken meals together at staff meetings, that I was more important than I was in the collective zeitgeist —namely, that I’d finally gone from beyond being the “creepy” guy to someone that people actually wanted to know and interact with. Again, my mistake.

As our event has grown, I’ve been mulling over the #FurryOver30 hashtag from Twitter—the reaction to an ageist movement that suggested that anyone over 30 should leave furry fandom. As of 2017, I’d been a formal part of the fandom for almost 24 years, and at 45 years old, I’d more than outlived my socially-decreed “time” by the claimants standards. Likewise, as I was pulling locals together to build this event, I remembered a friend telling me recently that I’d been described to him as “creepy” by at least one local furry in the early ‘10’s, before I stepped forward to begin building things. Despite groups in fandom who told me I didn’t belong, I actually felt like I did here—like I wasn’t just “buying” my way in by making a convention happen in the area.

I had gotten a little comfortable and let my guards down. I had thought that I’d had my “Bee Girl” moment and found my community, and that being excluded from the party was a harsh reality check. So I got angry on Twitter. I apologize for any assumptions made, and I assure folks that I’ll maintain my social distance as I keep looking for my “bee girl” moment elsewhere in the fandom.

For four days now, the people I've hurt told me how I disappointed them.  That happens a lot, believe me.  Just ask my parents for the last fourty-five years, so it's nothing new.  If this is your first time, I'm sorry I hurt you.  I'm not always going to be able to be the unflappable badger, or an unmoveable rock.  I'm broken.  I've been broken most of my life, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm on my way to being whole.  Only to be reminded of just how very far I have to go.  I'm not convinced I'll ever be whole?  But I'm going to keep trying.  And I'm hoping to keep trying with the those around me.

Once again, I apologize.

[centerofstupidity]

A Walk to Remember Chapter 1 Snark

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Interested in reading the previous A Walk to Remember chapter snarks? They can be found here. 

Next Nicholas Sparks Book Snark: The Rescue 

Chapter summary: We meet a Bible-thumping minister and Landon is a terrible person. Also, the designated love interest is an Angel of the House: innocent, perfect, and pure.

The story is set in Beaufort, North Carolina in 1958.

Landon says that the humidity is so hot in the summer that “walking out to get the mail made a person feel as if he needed a shower.”

People waved from their cars whenever they saw someone on the street whether they knew him or not,

In a Nicholas Sparks, everyone is friendly, good, and God-fearing Christians. (The villain is always one-dimensional.)

They know each other’s business and have lived in town for their entire lives. And news always travels fast in the small town.

Landon says for many people fishing and crabbing is a way of life.

Only three channels came in on the television, though television was never important to those of us who grew up there. Instead our lives were centered around the churches, of which there were eighteen within the town limits alone.

1. Yes, I know that Americans were more religious in the 1950’s. 2. But they still had a life outside of a church and weren’t thinking about Jesus 24/7. 3. People went camping and fishing. They also went to bowling alleys, sock hops, and drive-in movie theaters. 4. For most of the story, Landon isn’t very religious. He goes to church but that’s it. And Landon regards a girl who reads the Bible every day as a weirdo. 5. The only time Landon became religious is when he supposedly fell in love with Jamie. 6. It is important to remember that Nicholas Sparks has writing rules that he won’t break like all of his characters must go to church.  7. And he has said that people without faith are alone, thinking they are the center of the universe. 

Landon rattles off the names and types of Baptist churches in the area.

The big event of the year is a Christmas play sponsored by the Baptist church downtown and the local high school.

The play is written by Hegbert Sullivan, “a minister who’d been with the church since Moses parted the Red Sea."

Okay, maybe he wasn’t that old, but he was old enough that you could almost see through the guy’s skin. It was sort of clammy all the time, and translucent—kids would swear they actually saw the blood flowing through his veins—

Translucent skin… Translu…

“His skin was translucently white, like onionskin, and it looked just as delicate—” New Moon by Stephenie Meyer

So Hegbert is a sparklepire? Good to know.

and his hair was as white as those bunnies you see in pet stores around Easter.

Wow. Just wow. The prose is so boring and bland.

And Nicholas Sparks thinks he writes like Ernest Hemingway…

Also, what seventeen-year-old boy would say “bunnies”?

Hebert wrote the play The Christmas Angel because he hates A Christmas Carol.

In his mind, Scrooge was a heathen, who came to his redemption only because he saw ghosts, not angels—and who was to say whether they’d been sent by God, anyway?

I hate to break it to ya but both ghosts and angels are spirits.

The only difference is that a ghost is a human spirit that has not properly passed over to the other side and they remain on earth while angels are spiritual beings of light.

And who was to say he wouldn’t revert to his sinful ways if they hadn’t been sent directly from heaven?

Um… If the ghosts weren’t sent from Heaven, then where did they come from?

Baptists don’t believe in purgatory. After death, they believe that there are only two places where people can go: Heaven or Hell.

Unless the minister thinks the ghosts are demons in disguise.

It won’t make any sense because the three spirits are trying to get Scrooge to repent and be a better person.

The play didn’t exactly tell you in the end—it sort of plays into faith and all—

Maybe Charles Dickens didn’t think he had to spell it out in 72 pt Times New Roman font.

but Hegbert didn’t trust ghosts if they weren’t actually sent by God, which wasn’t explained in plain language, and this was his big problem with it.

1. And where is the proof that they are not sent by God? 2. Faith is about believing without seeing and not demanding proof. 3. And Christians who deepen their faith learn how to discern between the voice of God, the voice of Satan, and one’s ego. 4. Is Hegbert pissed off at Charles Dickens because the ghosts didn’t say ”I am the ghost of Christmas (past/present/future) and I was sent by God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth"? 5. Because following that logic, the Archangel Raphael was not sent by God. 6. In The Book of Tobit, the Archangel Raphael didn’t reveal his identity until Tobit cures his father’s blindness. For most of the story, Tobit knew the Archangel Raphael as Azariah the son of Hananiah the great.

A few years back he’d changed the end of the play—sort of followed it up with his own version, complete with old man Scrooge becoming a preacher and all, heading off to Jerusalem to find the place where Jesus once taught the scribes.

Unsurprisingly, nobody liked the play so Hegbert decided to write his own play.

He’d written his own sermons his whole life, and some of them, we had to admit, were actually interesting, especially when he talked about the “wrath of God coming down on the fornicators” and all that good stuff.

A fire and brimstone minister.

N. Sparks will claim later on that he has a great sense of humor and we are supposed to see him as a great guy.

Because we all know fire and brimstone ministers are not anti-semitic, homophobic, islamophobic, misogynistic, racist, sexist and xenophobic pieces of shit.

That really got his blood boiling, I’ll tell you, when he talked about the fornicators. That was his real hot spot.

“And don’t get him started on those Commies and sodomites."

So Landon and his friends hid behind trees and shouting that Hegbert is a fornicator before walking down the street.

We’d giggle like idiots, like we were the wittiest creatures ever to inhabit the planet.

Landon is following Anita Blake's logic: If you do something wrong, just say you feel bad about it, and continue being a terrible person. And nobody will dare tell you to STOP being an asshole.

Old Hegbert, he’d stop dead in his tracks and his ears would perk up—I swear to God, they actually moved—and he’d turn this bright shade of red, like he’d just drunk gasoline, and the big green veins in his neck would start sticking out all over, like those maps of the Amazon River that you see in National Geographic.

1. So Hegbert is a mog too? (Virtual cupcake to anyone who gets that reference.) 2. I know that some people can wiggle their ears. Because humans can't perk their ears up like a dog.

Hegbert is pissed off and he is looking for them.

Boy, it was something to watch, that’s for sure.

"Being an asshole is a lot of fun!"

So the assholes are hiding behind a tree. Landon sneers "what kind of parents name their kid Hegbert, anyway?" and Hegbert is standing there, waiting for them to "to give ourselves up, as if he thought we’d be that stupid."

They cover their mouths with their hands and Hegbert always knows where to find them.

Hegbert tells them that he along with the Lord knows "who you are". And a minute later, Hegbert walks away.

During the sermon that weekend he’d stare right at us and say something like “God is merciful to children, but the children must be worthy as well.”

"But subject you to pain, unpleasantness -- suffering -- and you will take notice, you will fight to overcome, to earn your redemption. That is when you're at your best." Gabriel from Constantine 2005.

I think Gabriel and Hegbert should go bowling.

The assholes lower themselves in seats "not from embarrassment, but to hide a new round of giggles."

Landon says that Hegbert didn't understand us "didn’t understand us at all, which was really sort of strange, being that he had a kid and all."

But then again, she was a girl. More on that, though, later.

"Girls are ladylike and only like cute and pretty things. And tomboys don't exist."

Landon repeats the fact that Hegbert is the one who wrote The Christmas Angel and decided to put on the play.

He says that the play isn't bad and this surprised everyone the first year it was performed.

I am putting on my jeweled turban and gaze into my crystal ball.

It's about Hegbert Tom Thorton who had lost his wife in childbirth and is raising a daughter all on his own.

It will also be sappy like a Hallmark movie. Aren't I awesome?

He hasn't been the greatest father and his daughter wants a special music box for Christmas. He can't find the box and meets an angel disguised as a woman on Christmas Eve.

The angel promises to help him to get the gift for his daughter. Along the way, they help a homeless person and Landon is quick to say that "back then they were called bums".

Tom tells the angel that he wants his wife back for Christmas. The angel tells him to look into the city fountain and he'll find what he is looking for.

Tom cries after seeing the face of his daughter. The angel is MIA and Tom heads home.

He realizes he hasn't been a good father and that his daughter is all he has left of his wife.

The story ends with the music box underneath the tree and the angel on the box looks exactly like the mysterious woman.

Landon repeats that the play "wasn't that bad".

Apparently, the play sold out every year and people "cried buckets" every time they saw it.

Hegbert wants seniors in high school to perform the play and not the theater group.

I reckon he thought it would be a good learning experience before the seniors headed off to college and came face-to-face with all the fornicators.

Unless these seniors want to become actors, how is performing a play count as "good learning experience"? 

And how does performing a Christmas give the students the information to deal with "fornicators"? 

I'm getting the impression that Nicholas Sparks thinks that men and women in the past were BOTH expected to stay celibate before marriage.

But that's not the case. Men weren't expected to remain virgins.

Men could have extramarital affairs, have longtime mistresses, and even have sex with other men. And guys would get away with it as long as they didn't flaunt them in public.

Women were expected to celibate until they were married. It took an unchaperoned visit or ONE sexual affair for a woman to be considered a whore. 

He was that kind of guy, you know, always wanting to save us from temptation.

"Remember boys and girls: premarital sex is wrong!"

He wanted us to know that God is out there watching you, even when you’re away from home, and that if you put your trust in God, you’ll be all right in the end.

Riiight.

Because the same minister who gives fire and brimstone sermons would be the sort of person that would talk about God watching over you and if you trust Him, then things will be all right.

I think the minister would most likely say "God is always watching your every move. If you are bad, He will smite you. And your soul will burn in Hell for all eternity."

It was a lesson that I would eventually learn in time, though it wasn’t Hegbert who taught me.

"It would be my designated love interest."

Landon says that Beaufort is a typical southern town but it has an interesting history.

He talks about how Blackbeard owned a house in town and recently his ship might have been found by "some archaeologists or oceanographers or whoever looks for stuff like that."

Landon, they are called marine archaeologists.

Being that it sank over 250 years ago and you can’t exactly reach into the glove compartment and check the registration.

Because a pirate ship would have a glove box.

I think that comment sounded wittier in Nicholas Spark’s head than it does on paper.

Beaufort’s come a long way since the 1950s, but it’s still not exactly a major metropolis or anything.

We get it, Landon. Beaufort is a quaint and small southern town.

Beaufort was, and always will be, on the smallish side, but when I was growing up, it barely warranted a place on the map.

For the love of all that is holy, will you please stop talking about the same thing over and over again?

Landon keeps talking about how Beaufort is a small town and how "the congressional district that included Beaufort covered the entire eastern part of the state—some twenty thousand square miles—and there wasn’t a single town with more than twenty-five thousand people."

It turns out that Landon's father is a congressman.

I suppose you’ve heard of him. He’s sort of a legend, even now.

If he was a legend, then you wouldn't be telling us who he is.

Landon's father is Worth Carter and he was a congressman for almost thirty years.

Worth's election slogan is “Worth Carter represents ———” and people are supposed to fill in the city name where they lived.

I can remember, driving on trips when me and Mom had to make our appearances to show the people he was a true family man

I call bullshit on Landon's dad being a "true family man".

Landon's father is gone nine months out of the year and is living in Washington D.C. while his mother is taking care of him.

Landon talks about how his father election slogan "was fairly sophisticated publicity."

He says that nowadays people would put foul language in the blank space but in the good ol' days  "we never saw it once."

Landon quickly backpedals and says "okay, maybe once."

A farmer from Duplin County once wrote the word shit in the blank space, and when my mom saw it, she covered my eyes and said a prayer asking for forgiveness for the poor ignorant bastard.

Nicholas Sparks is still trying to persuade me that 1950's was a wholesome utopia.

But I'm not convinced.

Every era of human history, no matter how fascinating or glamorous, has a dark side that people don't want to acknowledge. 

And I find it very hard to believe that Landon has never seen or heard foul language before. 

For instance, in middle school, I heard people say things that would make even a sailor blush. 

Since Landon's mother is ladylike, she "didn’t say exactly those words."

So my father, Mr. Congressman, was a big-wig, and everyone but everyone knew it, including old man Hegbert.

Landon claimed that daddy dearest was a "legend."

And Merriam-Webster defines a bigwig as "an important person"

So the words "everyone but everyone knew it" is redundant.

Worth Carter and Hegbert don't get along. But Worth still goes to Hegbert's church whenever he was in town.

Hegbert, in addition to his belief that fornicators were destined to clean the urinals in hell, also believed that communism was “a sickness that doomed mankind to heathenhood.”

I will bring this up if anyone claims that Hegbert is a good guy. 

One of the biggest problems with A Walk to Remember is plot mixing. 

What is plot mixing, you may ask?

Plot mixing is a term that I have coined. Plot mixing is when an artist takes at least two contradictory plots and they mix it together haphazardly, resulting in a ghastly mess. 

For instance, Hegbert is supposed to be a wonderful guy with a great sense of humor. But he is acting like a Bible-thumping minister. 

They also knew that he was directing his words specifically to my father, who would sit with his eyes closed and pretend not to listen.

I have just a quick question: why would Landon's dad go to a church where the minister despises him and makes pointed sermons?  

According to Landon, there are other churches in the area. So, why hasn't Worth Carter left Hegbert's church and joined another church?

It turns out that Landon's father belongs to the House of Un-American Activities Committee.

My father had consistently looked for facts, which were irrelevant to people like Hegbert.

IRL, I hate it when people think they are the gatekeepers of knowledge, truth, and wisdom.

They also claim that they have "facts" that support their worldviews.

If anyone who disagrees with them, then they are dumb sheep and a racist bigot.

Are we seriously supposed to see HUAC as the good guys? 

HUAC ruined people's lives and careers. And their actions violated the 1st and 5th Amendments of the Bill of Rights. 

Every time Landon's father would come home after the church service, he would complain about Reverend Sullivan.

My father tried to defuse situations whenever possible. I think that’s why he stayed in Congress for so long.

Like any politician, a congressperson gives people in high places verbal blowjobs and make promises that they have no intentions of keeping along with having goons to cover up their crimes.

The guy could kiss the ugliest babies known to mankind and still come up with something nice to say.

Are we supposed to applaud Landon's dad being nice to the "ugly" people?

“He’s such a gentle child,” he’d say when a baby had a giant head, or, “I’ll bet she’s the sweetest girl in the world,” if she had a birthmark over her entire face. One time a lady showed up with a kid in a wheelchair. My father took one look at him and said, “I’ll bet you ten to one that you’re smartest kid in your class.”

Fuck this book with a rusty screwdriver!

And he wasn’t such a bad guy, not really, especially if you consider the fact that he didn’t beat me or anything.

A parent is not supposed to abuse their children, you twat!

But he wasn’t there for me growing up.

In a better story, Landon being estranged from his father would be a source of conflict. 

And throughout the story, Landon would fix his broken relationship with his father.

But this is a shitty story, Landon will meet his designated one tru luv who is purer than Sir Galahad. 

Landon spends time with this girl and his relationship with Dad is magically mended. 

I hate to say that because nowadays people claim that sort of stuff even if their parent was around and use it to excuse their behavior. I’m not using it to excuse the person I’ve become, I’m simply saying it as a fact.

No, you did. 

You even said it "made me become something of a rebel."

My mother didn’t go with him because both of them wanted me to grow up “the same way they had.”

So they were raised by one parent?

Wait a tick... I think what Landon means is that his parents wanted him to grow up in a small town. 

And small towns tend to be politically conservative. 

As a member of HUAC, a married man living alone would raise more than a few eyebrows.

Especially since the nuclear family was considered the "ideal" family in 1950's.

Also during this time period, people wanted to uphold traditional family roles and values.   

I'm sure Worth Carter's political opponents would have a field day if they knew he wasn't a family man. 

And you can't tell me that in a Southern small-town that people won't gossip about a married woman raising a child all by herself and her husband is rarely home. 

Landon says that his grandfather spent time with his father and how that "adds up to quite a bit before adulthood."

Landon talks about how his father was "a stranger" and someone he "barely knew at all."

He also used to think that "all fathers lived somewhere else."

Landon says that one day his best friend Eric Hunter asks him "who that guy was who showed up at my house".

Landon replies that the man was his father "proudly."

“Oh,” Eric said as he rifled through my lunchbox, looking for my Milky Way, “I didn’t know you had a father.”

"People around town were saying that your mamma was a whore and has a beau."

Landon repeats the fact that he was raised by his mother.

Now she was a nice lady, sweet and gentle, the kind of mother most people dream about.

Because most people want their mother to be a cold-hearted bitch.

Does Landon seriously think that his mother deserves a medal for not being an asshole? 

And I'm getting the feeling that dear old mom is going to be a submissive housewife who never speaks her mind, makes sure the house is always immaculate and treats her husband like a king. 

But she wasn’t, nor could she ever be, a manly influence in my life, and that fact, coupled with my growing disillusionment with my father, made me become something of a rebel, even at a young age.

Where do I even begin?

According to Landon, women are incapable of doing/liking "manly" activities. 

Butch women or tomboys don't exist. ALL women love feminine things and are ladylike. 

And it takes a MAN to raise a "real" man.

The father is supposed to do "manly" activities with his son on a regular basis. And boys are supposed to do and like "manly" activities.

If the boy doesn't and becomes a delinquent, then he is a sissy and his mother is to blame.

Not a bad one, mind you.

This is a Nicholas Sparks novel.

He would never have a "protagonist" do bad things. He has a wholesome image to uphold.

They must be good as gold or be mildly delinquent.

Me and my friends might sneak out late and soap up car windows now and then or eat boiled peanuts in the graveyard behind the church, but in the fifties that was the kind of thing that made other parents shake their heads and whisper to their children, “You don’t want to be like that Carter boy. He’s on the fast track to prison.”

Contrary to what Nicholas Sparks might believe, the 1950's wasn't Leave it to Beaver.

For instance, people did phone pranks, threw cherry bombs or were stealing statues.

Me. A bad boy. For eating boiled peanuts in the graveyard. Go figure.

Landon repeats the fact that his father and Hegbert don't get along. But he says "it wasn’t only because of politics."

And then it happens.

It turns out that Worth Carter and Hegbert knew each other for a long time.

And Hegbert is twenty years older than Daddy Dearest and used to work for Landon's grandfather.

My grandfather— even though he spent lots of time with my father —was a true bastard if there ever was one.

I have a question, Landon. Does your grandfather only wears black clothing and has an evil laugh?

He was the one, by the way, who made the family fortune, but I don’t want you to imagine him as the sort of man who slaved over his business, working diligently and watching it grow, prospering slowly over time.

We get it, Nicholas Sparks. Landon's grandpa is more evil and greedy than all the robber barons.

Next, you'll be telling us that grandpa was a pedophile or kicked puppies for fun.

His grandfather was a bootlegger during the Prohibition, started buying land and then hired sharecroppers to work it.

Grandpa also took ninety percent of the money the sharecroppers made and loaned them money whenever they needed it at high-interest rates.

Grandpa is so EVIL he forecloses on any equipment or land they happen to own. Evil Grandpa...

No. From now on, I'm calling him Grandpa Beelzebub or GB.

GB started a bank called "Carter Banking and Loan."

The only other bank in a two-county radius had mysteriously burned down, and with the onset of the Depression, it never reopened.

The other bank didn't "mysteriously" burn down, you twit. GB had his goons torch the place.

Though everyone knew what had really happened, not a word was ever spoken for fear of retribution, and their fear was well placed.

So even the police were shaking in their boots?

The bank wasn't the only building that burned down.

Landon repeats the fact that Grandpa Beelzebub's interest rates "were outrageous." As time progresses, GB amasses more land and property.

He gets the original owners to continue working and pays them just enough money to "to keep them where they were, because they had nowhere else to go."

He told them that when the economy improved, he’d sell their business back to them, and people always believed him.

The townspeople know that GB used fear and intimidation to get what he wanted along with his shady business practices.

And they ALL believed that he would honor his promises. 

Never once, however, did he keep his promise. In the end he controlled a vast portion of the county’s economy, and he abused his clout in every way imaginable.

Ya know what?

There are so many times I can point out how Grandpa Beelzebub is cartoonishly evil so I'll let this gif speak for itself.

Grandpa Beelzebub died while having sex with his mistress on his yacht in the Cayman Islands. GB was also an old man.

He’d outlived both his wives and his only son.

If Daddy Dearest died before GB, he wouldn't be a prominent congressman.

And Landon would have never met his father. 

He would be visiting Daddy's grave and be raised by a widow. 

Life, I’ve learned, is never fair.

Marvel at how deep he is! No one has ever made such a wise statement.

Landon whines that it should be taught in school.

Hegbert, once he realized what a bastard my grandfather really was,

You mean arson and usury are not legal and moral? I never knew that!

Thanks for letting me know, Nicholas Sparks!

So, Hegbert quit working for GB and went into the ministry. Then he started ministering in the same church that Landon's family attended.

Hegbert spent some time "perfecting his fire-and brimstone act", giving monthly sermons on the evils of greed.

He was so busy Bible thumping that he had "scant time for anything else."

Hegbert was forty-three when he was married and his daughter Jamie was born when he was fifty-five.

Hegbert's wife was twenty-three years old and had six miscarriages before Jamie was born. She also died in childbirth.

Hence, of course, the story behind the play.

I love it when I'm right. And Hegbert is so arrogant if he thinks that everyone would want to see a play that is his thinly veiled life story.

People knew the story even before the play was first performed.

If it was any more obvious, the character Tom would be called Hegbert and be a minister.

It was one of those stories that made its rounds whenever Hegbert had to baptize a baby or attend a funeral.

Baptists don't baptize babies. They believe that only believers should be baptized and be fully immersed in the water.

Landon repeats the fact that everyone knew about Hegbert's story and says it is why people "got emotional" when they saw the play.

They knew it was based on something that happened in real life, which gave it special meaning.

So if a story isn't based on something that happened in real life, then it isn't special? Fuck you, Landon.

Jamie Sullivan was a senior in high school, just like me, and she’d already been chosen to play the angel, not that anyone else even had a chance.

I would be very surprised if Jamie WASN'T in the play.

After all, the play was written by her father and is a thinly veiled story about her dad losing her mom.

And real subtle, Nicholas Sparks.

A saintly girl is going to play an angel. 

Thank God, Jamie isn't named Sunshine Goodness. 

Jamie playing the angel is going to make the play "extra special" and how it is going to be a "big deal" especially for Miss Garber.

Miss Garber is the drama teacher and she was excited "the first time I met her in class."

Landon admits that he really didn't want to take drama class but it was "either that or chemistry II."  

No papers, no tests, no tables where I’d have to memorize protons and neutrons and combine elements in their proper formulas … what could possibly be better for a high school senior?

How about lunch? All you have to do is eat and socialize.

It seemed like a sure thing, and when I signed up for it, I thought I’d just be able to sleep through most every class, which, considering my late night peanut eating, was fairly important at the time.

Why am I getting the feeling that "late night peanut eating" is a euphemism for sex? Because eating peanuts is not a strenuous thing to do...

Landon arrives before the bell rang and sits in the back of the room.

Miss Garber had her back turned to the class, and she was busy writing her name in big cursive letters, as if we didn’t know who she was.

You just said that you met Miss Garber for the first time in class.

Now you are saying that you already knew her.

Which is it, Landon? 

All these contradictions are giving me a headache. 

Everyone knew her—it was impossible not to.

"She was bludgeoned with the ugly stick."

Am I the only one who thinks this comment is catty?

She was big, at least six feet two, with flaming red hair and pale skin that showed her freckles well into her forties.

The word "tall" seems like a better fit. 

Big is used to describe the size of something.

While "tall" refers to the height of something.

I seriously hope that Landon isn't saying that this woman is "ugly". 

She was also overweight—I’d say honestly she pushed two fifty—and she had a fondness for wearing flower patterned muumuus. She had thick, dark, horn-rimmed glasses, and she greeted everyone with, “Helloooooo,” sort of singing the last syllable.

Translation: she's a fat Julia Child who wears glasses.  

From now on, I shall call Miss Garber Julia Child.

Miss Garber was one of a kind, that’s for sure, and she was single, which made it even worse.

Stop! Do not pass go! Do not collect $200!

A guy, no matter how old, couldn’t help but feel sorry for a gal like her.

Because after all, beauty on the outside is the only thing that matters. 

Being a good human being and having a nice personality is overrated. 

Later on, Landon complains that "the pickings were getting pretty slim" and how he doesn't want to be stuck bringing an "ugly" girl to the homecoming dance (i.e.  girls who have thick glasses or have lisps.)

People praise Nicholas Sparks for writing wholesome fiction that has life lessons and good morals. 

But I would rather read a story that has swearing (Ow! My virgin ears!) or graphic sex (gasp!) than a story with shitty messages and it is written by a pretentious writer who believes that they write literary masterpieces. 

Julia Child writes the three goals that she wants to accomplish: self-confidence, self-awareness, and self-fulfillment.

Landon remarks that she was "into the 'self' stuff."

Maybe it had something to do with the way she looked; maybe she was just trying to feel better about herself. But I digress.

It wasn’t until the class started that I noticed something unusual.

"Everyone wore black cloaks and pledged their allegiance to Satan."

Landon is surprised that the class is "at least ninety percent female" because he "knew for a fact" that school is split 50/50 between boys and girls.

There was only one other male in the class, which to my thinking was a good thing, and for a moment I felt flush with a “look out world, here I come” kind of feeling.

The schools in Beaufort NC have excellent math programs...

I don't feel like spending hours trying to look up the average high school class size in North Carolina during the 1950's.

So I'll be using the current average high school class size in North Carolina.

According to this, the average class size for secondary school (high school) in North Carolina is 25.8 students.

Let's say there are twenty-six students in the drama class. 

91% of 26 would be 23.66

Approximately, there would be 23 girls and 3 boys. 

Besides Landon, there would be two other boys in the classroom.

Girls, girls, girls … I couldn’t help but think. Girls and girls and no tests in sight.

It is good to know that Landon is thinking with his head and not with his dick.

Okay, so I wasn’t the most forward-thinking guy on the block.

Anita Blake Logic # 2: If you say something wrong, act like you are feeling guilty.

You DON'T try to be a better person and APOLOGIZE to the person/people that you have hurt. No one EVER calls you out on your shit.

So Julia Child talks about the play and tells everyone that Jamie is going to play the angel.

She starts clapping and it turns out that she is a member of Landon's church.

And there were a lot of people who thought she was gunning for Hegbert in a romantic sort of way. The first time I heard it, I remember thinking that it was a good thing they were too old to have children, if they ever did get together. Imagine—translucent with freckles?

The very thought gave everyone shudders, but of course, no one ever said anything about it, at least within hearing distance of Miss Garber and Hegbert.

So everyone is an asshole and gossips like fishwives?

Gossip is one thing, hurtful gossip is completely another, and even in high school we weren’t that mean.

"Like Duloc, the South is a perfect place!"

I'm sorry but I don't believe that a high school with no cliques and everyone is nice exists. 

Landon is a douchebag and so are his friends. 

Also, how is gossiping about Thank God Hegbert and Julia Child can't reproduce count as not being "mean"?

And the townspeople talk about Hegbert's wife having multiple miscarriages and dying in childbirth...

And for a novel that is so friggin' preachy by constantly talking about God's plan/the Lord's plan and quoting Bible verses...

It doesn't realize that the Good Book doesn't view gossip as a venial sin while "hurtful" gossip is a mortal sin.

The Bible denounces it.

Julia Child keeps on clapping until everyone finally joined in. She orders Jamie to stand up.

Jamie stands up and turns around. Julia Child is clapping even faster to which Landon snidely remarks "as if she were standing in the presence of a bona fide movie star."

Now Jamie Sullivan was a nice girl. She really was.

Translation: It's a pleasant way to say that she isn't attractive.

Landon talks about the town only has one elementary school so everyone has been "in the same classes our entire lives."

He admits to having a "few conversations" with Jamie.

Who I saw in school was one thing; who I saw after school was something completely different, and Jamie had never been on my social calendar.

"She is not worthy to stand before me!"

It’s not that Jamie was unattractive— don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t hideous or anything like that.

"Inner beauty is overrated!"

Landon reluctantly admits that Jamie "wasn't half-bad." But he doesn't consider her to be attractive.

Despite the fact that she was thin, with honey blond hair and soft blue eyes, most of the time she looked sort of … plain, and that was when you noticed her at all.

Because having fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes were NEVER considered to be signs of beauty.

And I really hate it when a character is "TV ugly".

Especially when it is combined with this. 

Jamie didn’t care much about outward appearances, because she was always looking for things like “inner beauty,” and I suppose that’s part of the reason she looked the way she did.

I love how inner beauty is put in quotes. As if the concept is absolute horse shit.

For as long as I’d known her—and this was going way back, remember— she’d always worn her hair in a tight bun, almost like a spinster, without a stitch of makeup on her face.

This statement is obnoxious because later on in the story Jamie will be described as beautiful even when she is dying of a terminal illness.

Jamie wears frumpy clothes and everyone thought it was "just a phase".

But it wasn’t just the way Jamie looked that made her different; it was also the way she acted.

"She acted like an Angel of the House: innocent, perfect, and pure."

Jamie never went to slumber parties or had a boyfriend.

Old Hegbert would probably have had a heart attack if she had.

Hegbert would have denounced his daughter as a harlot before killing her.

Jamie carried her Bible wherever she went, and if her looks and Hegbert didn’t keep the boys away, the Bible sure as heck did.

"It couldn't possibly be that her father is a Bible-thumping asshat."

Now, I liked the Bible as much as the next teenage boy,

Translation: not at all.

but Jamie seemed to enjoy it in a way that was completely foreign to me.

"She reads it from cover to cover."

Not only did she go to vacation Bible school every August, but she would read the Bible during lunch break at school.

This is Nicholas Spark's "subtle" way of telling us that Jamie is a good person. Because she reads the Bible.

Landon thinks Jamie is abby normal. How romantic.

No matter how you sliced it, reading Paul’s letters to the Ephesians wasn’t nearly as much fun as flirting, if you know what I mean.

Because flirting is a lot of fun!

If I didn't know any better, I'd say flirting is a code word for sex... 

But one of Nicholas Sparks' writing rules is that his teenage characters never have premarital sex. 

But Jamie didn’t stop there. I knew she volunteered at the orphanage in Morehead City, but for her that simply wasn’t enough.

Let me guess. Jamie is SO good that she is going to help baby animals and solve world hunger.

She was always in charge of one fund-raiser or another, helping everyone from the Boy Scouts to the Indian Princesses, and I know that when she was fourteen, she spent part of her summer painting the outside of an elderly neighbor’s house. Jamie was the kind of girl who would pull weeds in someone’s garden without being asked or stop traffic to help little kids cross the road. She’d save her allowance to buy a new basketball for the orphans, or she’d turn around and drop the money into the church basket on Sunday.

Ho-lee fuck! Where do I even begin?

There is no such thing as a Native American princess.

Nobody is perfect. But according to Nicholas Sparks Landon, Jamie is practically perfect in every way. 

Jamie is NEVER depicted as having any flaws. She is always nice to everyone and always never does anything wrong.

She was, in other words, the kind of girl who made the rest of us look bad, and whenever she glanced my way, I couldn’t help but feel guilty, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.

You are a douchebag who makes snide comments.

Nor did Jamie limit her good deeds to people. If she ever came across a wounded animal, for instance, she’d try to help it, too. Opossums, squirrels, dogs, cats, frogs … it didn’t matter to her.

We get it, Sparks. Jamie is a paragon of virtue. Stop talking.

With Jamie, everything was in the Lord’s plan. That was another thing. She always mentioned the Lord’s plan whenever you talked to her, no matter what the subject.

I get it, Sparks.

Jamie is a saintly person. 

And Jesus is love, Jesus is life.

Landon tells us that Jamie thinks she is "so blessed to have a father like mine."

He thinks "what planet she actually came from."

Despite all these other strikes, though, the one thing that really drove me crazy about her was the fact that she was always so damn cheerful, no matter what was happening around her.

In real life, a person who is ALWAYS cheerful is depressed.

But this is a Nicholas Sparks novel. 

So Jamie is cheerful like a Disney princess. 

Thank God, Jamie doesn't break into song.

I swear, that girl never said a bad thing about anything or anyone, even to those of us who weren’t that nice to her.

Translation: Jamie is a female version of Jesus Christ.

Landon keeps going on about how nice Jamie is.

All the adults "adored" her and ladies would "come running out of their house" if they see Jamie walking by.

I was thinking about all this while Jamie stood in front of us on the first day of drama class, and I admit that I wasn’t much interested in seeing her.

For a girl that Landon despises, he won't stop talking about her.

But strangely, when Jamie turned to face us, I kind of got a shock, like I was sitting on a loose wire or something.

It is bad enough that Nicholas Sparks is forcing a romance between two characters and will claim that they are soulmates...

Now he has them feeling an instant electric connection.  

What’s next? Will fireworks go off? Will cherubs start to sing?

She wore a plaid skirt with a white blouse under the same brown cardigan sweater I’d seen a million times, but there were two new bumps on her chest that the sweater couldn’t hide that I swore hadn’t been there just three months earlier.

I'll give three guesses and the first two don't count. 

It isn't surprising since a lot of Nicholas Sparks' novels are renowned for having contrived "tragic" endings in which someone (usually the love interest) dies.

She’d never worn makeup and she still didn’t, but she had a tan, probably from Bible school, and for the first time she looked—well, almost pretty.

If "almost pretty" isn't a backhanded compliment, I don't know what is.

Landon quickly "dismissed" the thought.

But as she looked around the room, she stopped and smiled right at me, obviously glad to see that I was in the class.

Smiling is an expression that shows happiness, affection, etc. 

She shouldn't be happy to see him. 

The guy mocks her and avoids her like the plague. 

But Sparks told us that Jamie is made up of sugar, spice, and everything nice.

It wasn’t until later that I would learn the reason why.