#and i have known wealthy people who could buy their animals anything and pay any bill but still abused their pets in other ways

[ramlionbam]

"if you can't afford [this] then you shouldn't have a pet" is a thing i hear over and over again and it's really frustrating to hear people say this about food, or grooming, or vet bills.

(especially vet bills: many people just do not have thousands of dollars in savings for emergency vet bills, and thinking that they should or must in order to own an animal is ridiculous. if that was the case, millions of people would not own animals).

people's life situations change. maybe they could afford a pet before and they can't now, whether temporary or permanent, and this is a pet they've had for years. or, maybe this pet is old, or has a medical need or behavioral issue, and surrendering them means they would probably not have a good adoption outcome.

some people end up with a pet they can't care for due to unforeseen circumstances: taking in a pet from someone in a worse situation, getting gifted a pet, etc.

some people have pets because even if they're not financially stable, they have a pet that provides important emotional support or that they love. maybe they want to commit the "crime" of having a pet while being broke, because it is really, really difficult to be financially well-off and stable.

but guess what happens if you do decide that you want to surrender a pet, especially in highly populated urban areas?

sometimes, all the rescues and no-kill shelters will be full. you will have no guarantee that this animal - who you love - will not be euthanized for space.

and then, you may look at the county shelter, because you genuinely cannot keep an animal. but even the county shelter may not be taking immediate owner surrenders due to overpopulation.

there is zero recourse to surrender an animal in some areas. you may have no choice but to keep this animal, even if you are not able to meet its needs.

i have known people who have experienced a lot of these things. people who have been kicked out of homes with their pets. people who got pets based on their situations at the time who then had their lives change and were no longer in an ideal place to own that pet. people who have had no way to surrender a pet they could not care for.

if i have to hear one more financially stable and well-off person (or any person, but this demographic in particular) say "if you can't afford [this] then you shouldn't have a pet"...

if you can't be compassionate to people then you shouldn't open your mouth.

[saundraswriting]

S.C. Books Chapter 2

Summary: Eren and Levi spend more time together. Levi begins to see what Hange meant the other day about the shitty hand Eren had been dealt. Eren gets overwhelmed and heads to his comfort place.

Warnings: A graphic depiction of a nightmare and panic attacks

Notes: Hey guys! I hope you still are enjoying this fic. I am trying my best, and I hope that is enough. I have a very rough outline that I am not staying with so this is kinda rough and on the fly! This story references my high school career which ended in 2013 and my college career which ended in 2014.

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Eren took detailed notes as the professor lectured on large muscle groups. The class only had 5 hours a week for roughly 12 weeks to go over all the semester's information. The human anatomy and physiology 1 class was often broken into a lecture and lab portion, roughly two hours long. The discussion today was muscle groups and tendons and ligaments. The class moved quickly, causing Eren to over do his notes and readings to prevent confusion. It helped a bit that he had some art background, he knew groupings, and that he dad (was)is a doctor. Eren knew that even though he was taking good notes and paying attention he wasn't retaining a sliver of information. It was too much too fast but that is why for this class he blocked off extras study hours.

"Okay. That is enough for now. Let's take a quick 15. We still have a lab I want to get through. and it can be a doozy." Professor Nanaba clapped to get everyone's attention and the relief was palpable. Eren and a few others decided a short walk wouldn't be amiss. The science hall was quiet this late at night. There were a couple offices with lights on but not much else. Eren was walking on the second floor while reading and noting his two short stories for the next essay for his English class. The 15 minutes of literature and scrawled first impressions helped shake his mind of the fog that had been creeping in since the beginning of his A&P class.

The lab portion was helpful in reaffirming his knowledge of the muscular and skeletal systems of a human. His art background helped a bit too, he was able to make detailed drawings in his notes. When the lab was finished a short test was given, Eren loved and hated only have one class a week for this subject. It was the advanced class for a reason, meaning the pretty much did a speed-run of a week's worth of learning in a handful of short hours. The pace forced him to pay attention but anxiety sometimes caused him to fixate on the subject leading him to crunch other classes.

Once released Eren headed to the home he shared with Armin and Mikasa. The three of them had pitched together money from each of their inheritances from passed relatives-Armin from a wealthy grandfather and Mikasa and Eren from their parents-to buy a small cheap house not to far from the university. It wasn't anything special, came mostly furnished and they were able to thrift for the rest. It was home and that was enough. All three of them had more than enough to live on, especially with school being completely covered by scholarships, but they had decided in their junior year that life would be better together and better in the future. So they made do now to prepare for a better tomorrow. Eren walked the familiar route home, trying to remember if he had anything to do before getting to bed. He had gotten a lot done at the shop that day, Levi's small unprecedented visit helping a lot with his productivity.

Eren got home and quietly came through the door, trying to minimize any noise he made. 'Why did he pick today of all days to sit with me? What made today special?'Eren thought. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to relax the scrunch he knew he was making. 'Maybe he wanted to be nice? Maybe it was a trick? No, he seemed to genuine to be messing with me. He doesn't often work the counter, maybe he was just checking on me?'Eren thought. A tidbit of the conversation he had with Hange crept into his thoughts. '"I will say, I haven't seen him sit down and enjoy a conversation like today in a very long time. So treasure the fact that you are important to Levi Ackerman, for that is no small feat."' Eren blinked at his reflection in the mirror, shaking his head. There was no way, Levi Ackerman was interested in him. Levi was so smart and witty and intriguing. Eren was a bratty child who lost both his parents in a fit of mental anguish and is only getting by. Eren finished getting ready for bed, feeling uneasy about the direction of his thoughts. He knew he needed to sleep, he hadn't slept well the last few days. He couldn't do it again. Tomorrow was at least a shorter day. He had class solid from 11 to 4 then he was done. Maybe he could sleep in a bit and try to forget that Levi even look twice at him.

Eren didn't remember his dreams, on the days he dreamed that is. Other days he would wake with a burning throat and the sensation of viscous liquid creeping over him, the brownish red color of dried blood all he could see, screams ringing in his ears. Those days he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, the fear and anxiety and guilt forcing him to stay awake and try to not break down. He would sit counting his fingers and breaths for what seemed hours, hands gripping his hair, trying to resist pulling, sometimes he spent the early dawn hours in his and Armin's shared bathroom the shower too hot or too cold or hugging the toilet in-between vomiting episodes. He would sit silently, pushing it deeper and deeper down, until the acid in his stomach could dissolve it into nothingness. The was no trigger that he could find that set of the nightmares, he refused to tell anyone about them or the following panic attacks. He just waved off the rough nights as insomnia and stress from school. Eren knew he wasn't fooling many of his friends, if any, but he knew it was more trouble explaining it then it was worth. Today he was Lucky, he woke up in his bed to his alarm, violently. He was covered in sweat and was shaking, tears on his cheeks and throat sore. It wasn't a good night but Eren had worse ones.

The house empty, typical for a Thursday. Eren went down the stairs to see a message on the board about taking out the garbage, his class last night and breakfast being in the microwave. Eren puttered around the house, doing chores and eating his breakfast and getting ready for class. When it was time to leave Eren made sure he had all of his stuff and headed off to his classes.

He spent the hours he had in class diligently taking notes and meticulously planning his due dates. He didn't have the luxury of slacking for a second, if he missed one thing, he would be scrambling to catch up. He was in his last class of the day, his mind drifting to thoughts of S.C. Books and the hot owner. He was trying to just get through until he could get off campus, the panic attack he had in the morning was lingering in his trembling fingers and jumpiness. He just had to get through his last class. Eren's reputation in his friend group was the hot head that liked to pile on the pressure. He was smart and hard working but didn't know when to quit. He had a tendency to snap on a hair trigger and not much brought him back down. Most of his friends from high school went to Trost on scholarships, a few making the 50% cut instead of the 100%.

Class had just let out, he was the first to the door, blowing off everyone's calls to slow down or watch it, he didn't even snark back at Jean's remark for running into him. He was on a mission, it looked like a million ghosts were on his tail. Jean was known for priming Eren's trigger out of a sick sense of friendship, he seemed to be able to tell when Eren needed to blow off some steam, but he had never seen him look like that. 'Something is up with the dumbass, and I want to know.' Jean sent a text to his boyfriend Marco and made to follow Eren. He only got as far as the quad before he lost him in the crowd so he made his way to his next class.

Eren had blanked as soon as class was dismissed. He needed a quiet place. He couldn't go home Armin and Mikasa would only hover and make him feel worse. Campus was too noisy, he didn't want to risk anyone finding him. There was only one place to go, He could practically smell the tea and coffee and see Levi standing in front of him, small and compact and worried.

"Hey, brat. You okay? You look terrible." Levi's voice cut through the beginnings of him panic. Eren blinked. He was at S.C. Books, he had ran all the way there.

"Levi? How-When. I. What?" Eren could only gasp and stutter. He could feel his focus and awareness fading and brightening as he stood there. He looked around and saw people staring at him, causing him to shake more.

"You two good? I'll handle the brat." Levi didn't look away from Eren who was obviously not fully there. He came around the corner, slow and careful, it set Eren's teeth on edge.

"I am not made of glass. I am fine. Just give me a minute." He snapped. He took a couple deep breaths but could still felt like he was forgetting something.

"Okay. You're fine. That is why you came racing in here like the hounds of Baskerville were on your tail and also why you look like you are a million miles away, cause you're fine." Levi said. He took a few more steps closer. "I don't know what is wrong, but I want to help. You come in here looking like this or like the weight of the world is on your shoulders too much. I want to help you. What do you need?" Levi asked him quietly. The shop was slowly losing interest in their going-ons. Eren relaxed more they stopped paying attention.

"I'm fine. I had a bad dream this morning and it lingered. I got through class and just needed to come here. Sorry for making you worry." Eren rubbed the back of his head embarrassed.

Levi looked at Eren, lightly shaking, eyes glassy and unable to focus, breathing a little too fast, complexion just a shade too pale. 'This kid. He needs someone to take care of him.' Levi sighed, eyeing the way he slouched and curled in on himself trying to be smaller. ' I want to be the one to do it.' He blinked and shook that idea out of his head. "You table is open. If you want to sit down. I can join you if you like. If not, we can sit in my office for a bit. You look like you could use the space." Levi felt his eyebrows furrow. 'The fuck? I never let anyone in my office. What am I thinking' Levi looked at Eren for an answer.

"I would like to say your office, but your face is begging me to refuse that option. I very much appreciate the offer though. I do. I think I'll sit down for a bit and study. Maybe that will help soothe my nerves." Eren shuffled his bag a bit, seeming to hesitate. "Think you could join me? I could use the quiet company." Eren looked shy, like he expected to get rejected.

"Yeah. We can do that. Give me a minute. I'll get us some tea. and a few pastries, you could use with a little more weight on your bones." Levi nodded his head to Eren's usual table. Eren nodded a few times too many, still not completely aware. He flashed a shaky smile at the employees working, Petra and Molbit. Eren sunk down ungracefully into his chair, trying to ignore the gazes of the other patrons, he could feel them on his skin causing his breath to hitch. He began running his hand over the scar on his arm, up and down trying to use the motion to soothe himself.

"Eren, you with me, brat?" Levi asked from several steps away. He knew the kid was not having a good day and did not want to be what made it worse.

Eren looked up, eyes wide and shining, he looked a mix of grateful and pleased that Levi came back. He didn't even look at the two plates and mugs Levi was carrying until he placed them on the table and Levi wasn't sure what to make of that expression that was for him and only him. "Levi, thank you. I am sorry I caused such trouble. I have been coming here for a while, it was the only placed I could think of. I have been dealing with this just fine until now, so I don't know why all of a sudden, it was too much." Eren said, Levi could hear the confusion and frustration in his voice.

"Eren, I am honored that you think of my shop as a safe space. That means a lot. Now, why don't you eat and drink your tea. You need to take a breather and then we can crack open your books or we can talk for a while. How does that sound?" Levi nudged the plates and the tea he had the other day closer. Levi pulled out an iPad and continued working on some orders that he needed to finalize before the end of day. Levi looked over the top of his iPad to see Eren fire off one quick text and then turn his phone off.

Eren cradled the mug like it was the only source of warmth he ever had, it did help ease the trembling in his hands. Eren did as asked, sat silent and still, letting the tension drip off of him like water. After he cleaned his hands-with a small smirk to Levi who pretended to be distracted-Eren broke a few pastries in half, nibbling on some here or there. 'Can't this kid just accept the handouts, like why does he have to share?' Levi wondered.

A few more minutes and Eren looked less like he was going to pass out or be sick, so Levi decided it was time to move on. "Brat, you done?"" After Eren nodded he took away the dishes, paying no attention to his employees. "Do you want to talk or work?" Levi asked. He was fine with either one but couldn't deny he wanted to hear what spooked Eren.

"I have a tendency to panic or freak out when I am struggling, I can even be completely apathetic. Sometimes, I can't sleep. Some days it takes everything I have in me to breathe and some days I am fine. I have gotten better with learning coping skills and keeping busy is a big help but so has finding a place that hasn't been touched by the things that make my bad days even worse. Some times, school or home or my friends or my sister is enough to make a day turn sour. That isn't helped by my nightmares that lead into panic attacks at any given time of the night. Last night was more of the same, and when I got to school it was a little more then I could bear and soon I found myself sprinting to the only place I knew could make me feel better." Eren said. He spoke matter-of-factly, not wanting to Levi to think he was whining over his situation. Eren had come to accept that his life was better than some but not as good as others, but he was surviving. Levi's lack of response made it easier to talk.

"I think one of my friends tried to follow me here, they all worry over my mood swings and weight fluctuations. I don't have it in me to explain everything. I can barely gather the nerve to tell you this much. You've been so good to me for so long, letting me stay late or come in early. You treat me so kindly and don't badger me even though I know you and the others here are concerned. I really can't thank you enough. I don't know if I would be here without you Levi. So many days I have come in here, ready to end it all and then you call me a brat or make your not-jokes with the others and I am reminded all over again that I have everything to lose if I give up now." Eren reached over pinching Levi's sleeve between two fingers. He waited until Levi looked up, eyes shining wetly. "Levi, thank you so much. You are very important to me."

Levi let out the breath he had been holding the entire time Eren was speaking, his whole body softening. Levi hadn't softened for anyone in years, people pissed him off with their selfishness, and germs, and rudeness, and lack of gratitude. But here was this brat of a kid, trying to thank Levi for things he did all the time unconsciously. He could feel the warmth of Eren's gaze and appreciation fill him like the sun. "You're pretty important to me too, brat. Not many people just go along with my shitty humor or terrible honesty or overwhelming idiosyncrasies. I could thank you too. You don't remind me what to live for per se but that it is okay to live." Levi said. Eren blinked at him in surprise, mouth gaping. "Anyway, let's move on. You had class today, and you were pretty checked out earlier, why not get to work. Pick something light and go from there. I'll stick around for a bit. The quiet will do you some good." Levi suggested.

"Yeah. You're right. Today was practically useless, I can't afford to get behind." Eren pulled out his planner, muttering under his breath as he looked through it. Levi settled down in his seat, to wait out the kid who had been dealt a shitty hand. And if sometimes while he was working Levi took exaggerated breaths to help Eren pace his or Eren lightly pressed his fingers to Levi's wrist to measure his pulse, no one was around to comment on it.

[isaacdian]

hope you don't mind me asking, do you have any Isaac and Miria headcanons? i'd love to read some from you. you appear to have a good grasp on the characters, and great love for them. :)

aw thank you so much for the ask, sure thing!

some of these will probably get into theory territory as well, because i’ve had the novels sitting in my mind for years now, and there are a few details i’d like to mention (beware of baccano light novel spoilers, just in case).

this could get a bit long, so you can read it below the cut:

i’ll write my headcanons/thoughts in no particular order. more people might have come to similar conclusions, but i don’t think i’ve seen any posts or had any discussions with anyone regarding these (at least in depth), so!

- i like to think that miria and isaac ran away from their then (seemingly) unhappy lives after they got to interact with each other for quite a while, and not spontaneously upon meeting for the first time.

there isn’t much evidence to back this up beyond some characters commenting that they “were probably runaways” or that “maybe they eloped”, so they might have escaped together on the spot, since we already know they can be very impulsive. however, i get this feeling that their bond took some time to develop, and i’d love to see some of their interactions as isaac dian —and— miria harvent before they ever became isaac & miria, if that makes sense.

i doubt they met too long before their string of robberies, though? this is such a weirdly specific and probably meaningless thing to pinpoint, but in 1935 miria asks isaac if he’s ever been to the circus, and he responds that he does remember animals, but he doesn’t remember if that was the circus or the zoo. this hardly means anything, but their circumstances overall don’t really make me think that they’ve known each other since they were too young.

- whatever optimism and general exhilaration regarding life isaac has is innate. on the other hand, miria has mostly acquired her own sense of hopefulness over time, with isaac’s help.

miria is a 100% confirmed literal ray of sunshine and this indisputable. it just hasn’t/doesn’t always come to her as effortlessly as it may seem. bloody to fair isaac and miria magic show color page.png

this is somewhat related to the next one (and also the last point i’ll mention at the end of this post):

- when isaac gets arrested and he and miria get separated in 1934, they’re both having an equally hard time dealing with this.

okay this one is like. obvious ksjksk. but i wanted to talk about how they deal with this situation, because at first glance it looks like miria got the shortest end of the stick here. and in a way, that might be true! i’ve already mentioned that miria herself has been shown thinking about how much isaac helped her to be happy, and narita has been deliberately vague regarding the nature of their silliness, on top of hinting at the possibility of their shenanigans being a kind of mechanism to escape the harsh realities of life from the rolling bootlegs (very first novel), if i recall correctly.

(btw:

i recall that somewhere in the 1935 arc, graham starts talking with the usual “let me tell you a sad, sad story” prelude. however, isaac and miria are upset by this, and they tell him that he shouldn’t tell sad stories, because if you do it, your happiness will run away. meanwhile, this part in cloudy to rainy living rent free in my head:

i have to laugh..........)

that being said, i couldn’t help but feel like isaac was having an equally bad time, even if he displayed it in a different and not so blatant way. while i was rereading the novels after i got to buy the official english release, i felt very strongly that something was definitely wrong about their separation, which, again, is obvious to us readers and to the characters who know isaac & miria. but it extends beyond that. there was this general feeling of knowing that whoever came across an unaccompanied isaac would magically feel like there was something missing. i don’t know how else to explain this. he’s still full of energy and optimism and he’s fueled by his desire to reunite with miria, but every time he’s shown hesitating or doesn’t reach a satisfying conclusion while thinking about a frivolous topic, it hits you like “oh... right” (firo didn’t help much on that last front, either, so miria and isaac must have had to discuss what exactly happens to fellas who don’t believe in fairies after their reunion... lol)

in short, he needs miria just as much as she needs him. this is something i’ve seen other people mention as well: isaac might be the “force” factor in their relationship, but that force won’t amount to much without miria’s “direction”, and viceversa. the lift each other up, and they keep each other grounded, too.

i’m also remembering isaac and sham’s conversation and just. there’s a self-esteem/confidence factor in there. Fun Game of Spot the Difference

and this is getting ridiculously long, so i’ll spare you from having to read my dumb thots about isaac’s (possibly real) fear of miria not liking him, as the narrator implies, which i subconsciously ended up linking to that one impossibly crack ending in the ds game, where you pick the option of him not knowing frankenstein’s monster’s real name, so miria leaves him after realizing how “cheap and uncool” he is LMAO

- isaac’s father might have been an academic of some sort, as well as a stern man who disapproved of his son’s flighty and childish tendencies.

???????? besides miria’s implied tragic backstory, the most we know about both of their pasts is that isaac comes from a wealthy family with whom he seems to have a bad relationship with, so even though i’ve tried to work out other details (his parents’ provenance for instance?) i can’t really elaborate on this. even if isaac’s knowledge on the topic is pretty scrambled (to put it nicely lol), he knows a lot about “the orient” as he puts it, and the “dian” surname is pretty unique so who knows!👀 i’ve only mentioned his father because isaac, too, has only mentioned his "old man” twice so far in the novels, if i’m not mistaken. in my opinion, it also speaks volumes how flustered isaac got when molsa apologized to him, because it was the first time someone older than him has done this. and this is pretty arbitrary, but if isaac started robbing and getting into trouble before he and miria even met and/or before he got kicked out/ran away from home, that whole deal about “being used to dealing with policemen” (in the unofficial translation i read back in the day it was something along the lines of “this isn’t my first time being interrogated by the police”) in 1934 would make sense, i guess, considering that miria didn’t realize what was going on at the moment even though she’s a fairly perceptive person.

anyways it’s too bad we don’t know that much about miria on this front, also!! i get the vague feeling that she might have also come from a wealthy family (probably not a good environment, though), since in 1935 it’s mentioned that the closest they’ve ever gotten to working/having a job was when they were digging for gold, apparently. that’s why i can’t really think of anything too specific regarding miria’s past and upbringing... i have a feeling that she might have felt alone, trapped and/or overwhelmed. let’s just hope that when she said her bruises would heal up fine with ice in 1935 it had nothing to do with this “i should have died” business :(((

- even though isaac and miria love their friends and would do anything for them, they aren’t particularly attached to anyone (or any place) besides each other.

this is more of an observation than a headcanon, but i find it really interesting: they would definitely do anything for their friends, and they do enjoy life very intensely, but that’s precisely why they don’t seem to be fixed in one singular spot? basically, i feel like they’re the personification of “home is where the heart is” taken to the extreme. they could go anywhere and do anything as long as they have each other, and they will never make any attempts to actively do things that make it easier to label their relationship, such as getting married, which is heavily implied by firo (i think) in 2002 bullet garden (i think!!). that’s also part of the reason why i’m sure they’d never find themselves commiting to things like taking care of a pet, or a child; it’s more like they instantly “adopt” everyone they run into, as if they’ve always been friends, even if they won’t meet again for months, years, or ever again. anyway, isaac and miria are extremely good and they are literally going to be happy together forever and ever! they don’t need to prove that.

that doesn’t mean they’re not sentimental, though! i like to think that they keep some meaningful objects that remind them of fond memories of their friends. and this is hardly canon because it shows up in the anime And in a background at that, but shoutout to the rocking toy horse in their california mine lol.

- miria knew about her own immortality (as well as isaac’s) before the 2000s.

THIS IS PROBABLY MY SPICIEST TAKE and i tried to back it up in the next point of this list. i still keep thinking i’m reading too much, into this but

i can’t stop thinking about the implications, folks

which brings us to:

- miria is smarter than isaac is and actually has a fairly good idea of when he’s making stuff up, but is happy to let him take the lead.

i won’t deny that isaac and miria dedicate a huge chunk of their day to doing moronic stuff, and they are pretty dumb, but i feel like people don’t give them enough credit for how perceptive they are. even though that’s true of the two of them, i feel like this mostly applies to miria.

among other things, we’ve learned that she knows ronny isn’t human and has supernatural powers (wow), which is why she comes to him for help after isaac’s arrest. she’s very good at paying attention to small details, such as the kind of programs ennis watches on tv, or chané’s feelings, when the two talk in 1934. miria also “really knows her way around japanese” and has been shown to --apparently?-- multiply large numbers in her head in 1935... while isaac was talking about how good of an idea it would be to use the martingale betting system. not to mention how isaac stated he “doesn’t know how to count money” earlier in this arc. my god ksdjgjks. i want to know what’s up with this, if anything.

so, yeah! there’s probably more stuff that i could mention, but i am exhausted lol. thank you for your patience anon, i have no idea how long this has been sitting in my inbox. always happy to get baccano questions <3 i apologize for any typos/errors and the like.

bonus headcanon: miria grabs ennis with one hand and chané with her other hand and they go out with their arms linked and excited and they learn more about having fun, as friends do. no printer just fax

[insanescriptist]

So ever going to do anything more with that YYH and BnHA crossover fic? I want the Todorokis to be happy! And what about Dabi? Is he a thing here? (Because Dabi is Touya)

I’ve been nailing down details and history for it when thinking about it. Like what year is it in BnHA; we know it’s at least a century ahead -there’s a technology stall mentioned due to increased social upheaval- so the technology is similar to modern day so in theory you could slide the BnHA timeline to 2120 with ease. In theory. Except...

There’s more evidence to support Quirks being a phenomena of about 100-150 years; Inko -Deku’s mother- mentions that there’s five generations of Quirks on her side of the family. That’s about 100-150 years of Quirks being a thing, with Quirks implied to have happened longer than that before her family started displaying Quirks.

So if the bio-luminescent baby is born in 2000 for ease of math, go for a more advanced maternal age (generation of 30 years) as befitting a first-world nation like Japan and at least six generations that’s roughly 180 years, so 2180. At minimum; add in Izuku’s age and it’s probably closer to 2194 if each of his parents and recent ancestors had children at an average age of 30. There’s wiggle room of about 40 years, depending on length of generations and how many generations other people had Quirks but Inko’s ancestors didn’t.

It’s probably not 2238 or later, as it’s mentioned that the laws that turned Heroes into a genuine profession were passed in ‘38 so it’s unlikely. It does imply that Quirks were around for at least enough time for the early vigilantes and quirk-using villains to grow up though and be old enough and numerous enough that legislation was passed by whenever this ‘38 was. As there are Heroes that have been Heroes for decades in BnHA and the early vigilantes turned professional heroes are mentioned in history... it’s not going to be 2238 or later. But you’re not really going to get earlier than 2180 and that’s compressing generations. Which yes, people do have sex and children at twenty or younger but that’s not the average for people in wealthy, highly educated countries, especially in higher socio-economic classes. Even if they clearly have arranged for families to be easier to have and pay for on a national level somehow as multiple families are shown to have more than one child in BnHA. Yay tax incentives?

Also food for thought: if Quirks have to be inherited, then the genes for Quirks have to have already been present in the human species for far longer than people would want to think about for Quirks to be a world-wide phenomena; otherwise it would be limited to the descendants of one individual (and seven generations of doubling, with gen 1 having 1 Quirk-person, gen 2 having 2 Quirk-people and gen 3 having 4 quirk people only gets you 120 individuals with Quirks when you add gen 4, 5, 6 and 7 together is far too small to cause a world-wide genetic phenomena) or a distinct ethnic group. For Quirks to be a population-majority within seven generations, they would have to follow some sort of ‘contagious model.’ Being around individuals with Quirks helps a Quirk to develop, or something. Doesn’t explain the toe-joint thing but the toe-joint thing never made much sense to Izzy anyway. It’s more ‘word of God’ than ‘I researched science’ so it being a strong correlation, Izzy can buy but not ‘having a Quirk means the majority of the world lost a toe joint.’ Genetics don’t work like that! Popular-science unfortunately does. And even doctors are not immune to pop-science like that even if they should know better.

Thankfully YYH does have a valid way of explaining the development of ‘humans with strange powers.’ Exposure to youki and youkai; not just the demons but demon energy. Genkai shows off three new students she uses to test Yusuke at the start of the Chapter Black saga, where exposure to Sensui’s ‘dimensional gate’ to Makai makes them gain differing ‘psychic’ abilities. And they’re not the only ones either; a number of Chapter Black’s antagonists are also human: Gourmet, Sniper, Seaman, Gamemaster and the Doctor. The strength of their ‘spiritual energy’ is noted as ‘poor’ and ‘D-class’ for the majority of the known but their individual abilities do make them ‘A-class’ as threats, by canny usage of it. Please note that those mentioned are those that were found and used by Sensui or went to Genkai for training. Genkai also said she had others come to her for training, the sum of which was about 30 people. Note that those were all those that were known to be effected by Sensui’s plot to open a wormhole to Makai, not all those that were effected. Yeah. So that’s about 40-people who were known to have gained powers that incident. Which as YYH takes place in the mid-90s... does make BnHA’s Quirk history timeline a lot more plausible. Especially in light of YYH’s ending where youkai could openly move into the Human World. Thus increasing the concentration of youkai and youki in the world; there were already plenty of illegal immigrants of the youkai sort... and as Kurama in the 2018 OVA/Two-shot proves, being around a youkai long enough can increase a person’s sensitivity to supernatural phenomena and thus more likely develop a supernatural ability.

So about a decade later, bling baby is born, flashing the world and ‘Quirks’ start appearing all around the world, with some people using their abilities to commit crimes and others to save people. Fast-forward a generation or two and ‘Heroes’ become a genuine profession and start an obsession of society for ‘Heroes.’ And that eventually becomes BnHA, except with youkai discreetly in the background. I really want to know about the paperwork/identity shenanigans to keep youkai who live for ages with proper papers.

Izzy isn’t quite fully caught up with the BnHA manga; she kind of stopped reading when Izuku started displaying One For All’s recessive Quirks as it seemed very very Gary-Stu to get new powers instead of refine his strength and skill more. So timeline is going to be ambiguous as fuck until I nail it down further but here, has more Yukina is Boss and the YYH anime did her a disservice; people forget she was B-class and crossed Makai a few times all by her lonesome. Just because she doesn’t want to, doesn’t mean she can’t.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

“Oh wow, her outfit is so pretty!” Urakaka said suddenly, leaning against Izuku’s back unintentionally. Focus more on where she’s looking instead of what you’re feeling against your back Deku!

Deku looked. “Isn’t that Todoroki-san?” His classmate’s hair was distinctive and it wasn’t hard to see, even from across the street and down a ways. He was with someone with white hair and red patches -the angle was wrong to see who that was beyond that- and the other person had to be the one Urakaka was talking about; the clothing stood out for being more traditional but it clearly had modern influences so he had very little idea of what it was beyond something possibly Chinese.

Urakaka said something about the outfit again but Izuku didn’t hear it with Urakaka slumping against and down. Stupid libido, he needs that blood!

Iida, their previously silent third explained, “Yaoyorozo-san said Todoroki-san did tell her that Todoroki would be meeting with some family today. It’s why he would be missing the Class 1-A study session we’re supposed to be getting snacks for.”

Izuku heard some of the disapproval in his voice but either Izuku admitted what took him so long that one time for the school festival or accept the minders for any simple errand. It helped that everyone wanted different things and was way too much for one person to feasibly carry. He did kind of want to know about Todoroki’s family’s Quirks -did they have something like his classmate’s Half-hot, half-cold or did they have ice or fire or some sort of water as a possible mutation?- but that would be prying and that was a guy with a knife that people were moving away from, oh shit-

“Guy with a knife, near Todoroki!”

Iida dropped the snacks, engines revving towards them. Izuku followed with a pounce only to stop short of the cafe’s boundaries; the guy with the knife had horns and multiple sets of them -a horn quirk?- and was shouting about Endeavor. And the knife was at the throat of the pretty woman with mint-green hair and the pretty clothing that Urakaka was just admiring.

Hostage situation! Wait, they had a class on this- no, something was wrong here.

Todoroki was glaring but the hostage taker, she-

She wasn’t afraid and somehow that made things better for Izuku; he could breathe easier now, he could think-!

“You’re holding the knife wrong, someone could break your wrist like this.”

Knife guy told her to shut up or he’ll slice her throat and then Izuku heard a crack! That sort of dull snap that sounded like broken bones-

And knife guy was tossed over her shoulder and landed hard on the ground and-

It was over. The knife in the hand of the one who was once hostage. “What cheap metal.”

[whereisten]

Hero, Yuta, & Me

Summary: Your pet sitting job lands you at the doorstep of the magnetic Yuta Nakamoto, owner of the cutest Shiba Inu on the planet, Hero.

Multi-part Series: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Part 3

Word Count: 3.2k words

Kaia, Joanna, and Taissa drove over to your house to pick you up and drive over to Jaehyun’s house. You went with a dark blue dress that hugged your curves nicely. Your heels could poke an eye out.

You arrived at Jaehyun’s Spanish villa style home. Jaehyun came from a wealthy family but because of his soccer career, his wealth multiplied tenfold. The house probably had sixteen bedrooms AND sixteen bathrooms. In order to enter to Jung estate, you and the girls had to give your names at the security gate. You raised your eyebrows at the opulence and exclusivity of it all.

Kaia parked her blue Corvette (which your dress oddly matched with) and the four of you walked through the impressive garden entrance. You knocked on the door and were greeted by a butler who reminded you very much of Alfred Pennyworth circa The Dark Knight era.

“Welcome to the Jung estate. Master Jung is expecting you. Please come in,” he said.

Of course, Jaehyun had a British butler.

“Locked Out of Heaven” by Bruno Mars was playing from some admittedly amazing speakers. You recognized a lot of your classmates. Doyoung and Johnny were in an intense round of pool. Youngjae was belting it out in the karaoke room. Senior dance captain Lisa was at the center of the dance floor. It was surreal seeing everyone again after so long.

You and the girls were served some of the most amazing frozen margaritas in existence. You clinked glasses and talked about everything and nothing for a while.

You noticed that the party playlist was a 2012 playlist, highlighting the year you graduated. “Thinkin’ About You” by Frank Ocean played as you found yourself worried about Jaehyun popping out at any second.

The beautiful song paused. Then, you heard someone clinking their glass.

At the top of the grand staircase was the ever extravagant and ever extra Jaehyun Jung.

“Hello everyone!” Jaehyun yelled to the partygoers. He was met with cheers and whoops.

He continued, “Thank you so much for coming out. I’ve missed each and every one of you since we graduated.” His eyes met yours then.

Taissa cleared her throat. “Yikes.”

“Enjoy the night! There’s plenty of booze and make all the noise you want!” Jaehyun proclaimed.

Everyone yelled then as the music changed to “I Love It” by Icona Pop. More people went to the dance floor, drinks in hand.

“You guys saw that, right?” You asked.

“Anyone who’s had two drinks or less did, Y/N,” Kaia answered.

“He’s coming this way, y’all!” Joanna whispered a little too loudly.

Jaehyun sauntered his way over to you. You felt a little smaller and you hated that.

“Hello ladies,” he said as he smiled his angelic smile.

You had to hand it to the boy. His smile was so benevolent.

The girls all muttered greetings while you said, “Hi.”

“Y/N, I’m really glad you came,” he said as he smiled.

You sighed. “Well, how could I turn down free drinks?”

He laughed. “I deserved that.”

“Among other things,” Joanna muttered.

Jaehyun acted like he hadn’t heard that. “Y/N, can I speak to you alone?”

You raised your eyebrows at that. “Sure.”

Jaehyun led you to the gorgeous gazebo in the backyard. Candles were lit all around it. Technicolor flowers and lights sprinkled all over the top. It was so beautiful you wanted to pull your camera out and take photos at every angle.

Jaehyun sat down at the bench and you sat down as well, keeping yourself three feet apart from him.

Jaehyun fiddled with his champagne flute when he started. “You look great, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help the blush. Curse your seventeen-year-old self that was rising to the surface.

You snapped out of it and met his default flirtatious gaze. “Let’s cut the crap. What did you need to say?”

At first, Jaehyun averted his gaze and stared down at his lap. But then out of respect for you, he gave you eye contact as he delivered, “I am so sorry.”

That was the first of many things you wanted him to say. He just needed to beat himself up a little more before you caved and forgave him.

“For what?” You prodded, teasing him and acting like you didn’t know what he was talking about.

Jaehyun continued, “For blowing you off at prom and being scum of the earth.”

“Oh! That,” you said as you rolled your eyes.

“I was a jerk. And you were right. I was a coward.”

“I like what I’m hearing, good sir,” you said as you downed the rest of your margarita.

“I owe you an explanation. Not that it’s an excuse but I need you to know what happened.”

Your ears perked up at that. You were interested. You thought it was because he didn’t deem you cool enough or some other bull. But deep down you always wondered if there was more to the story.

“I’m listening,” you said.

“Candice’s dad was my old soccer coach. Taught me everything I knew and helped me book deals and sponsorships. But he was manipulative and wanted more of a cut of my earnings than he was given. I got caught up with some drug dealings senior year and he threatened to out me if I didn’t increase his pay and take Candice to prom.” Jaehyun looked smaller then as he shrunk in shame.

“Drugs?” You were shocked.

“I was an idiot, Y/N. I got clean after graduation. Told my parents everything. They cut ties with Coach Lochlan because they had some dirt on him. I took the summer to go to rehab and kept training.”

“And Candice?” You added.

“Candice had no idea about the drugs or what her dad was up to. She was a family friend. She always thought we would end up together even if we fucked around. So when I asked her to go the night before prom, she thought it was because it was the real deal.”

“Oh,” you managed to say.

“And...I didn’t know how to tell you. I felt horrible. I knew if I called you, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. If I texted, I...just couldn’t do it.”

“So Facebook messenger?” You asked in disbelief.

“I know. It was stupid and selfish and everything else,” Jaehyun downed the rest of his champagne.

You both sat in silence for a minute. The partygoers came in and out of the house. The vibe of the party was euphoric and carefree. The bubble you and Jaehyun created was not.

“Y/N, you have to know I liked you a lot back then,” he said.

“I figured you didn’t find me repulsive when you asked me to prom,” you said. He really pulled out all the stops back then. He convinced the soccer team to help him perform a slightly tone-deaf version of “I Swear” by All-4-One. You remember crying from laughter that day.

��I am so sorry,” Jaehyun repeated.

“So how are you now?” You wondered aloud.

“What?” Jaehyun was confused.

“Are you clean? For real?” Even if you thought Jaehyun was an egomaniac and a coward, he was still a human being with feelings and a family and a future.

Jaehyun nodded fervently. “I’ve been clean since the summer after senior year. Soccer was my only focus after that.”

“Look, what you did to me was cruel and humiliating. But...now that you told me what happened...It’s still cruel and humiliating...What you went through was terrible and I hope you’re clean now. I don’t want you to get messed up with drugs. It’s not a life for anyone. So...I forgive you.”

Jaehyun’s smile came back full force. His prominent dimples were bigger than you’d ever seen them. “Really?”

You nodded. “It’s in the past now.”

Jaehyun said, “Y/N, thank you.”

You smiled. “I’m glad you told me the truth. It must not have been easy for you to say it.”

Which made you wonder.

“Wait a minute,” you said.

Jaehyun’s smile faded.

“Why are you telling me this? Won’t this get you in trouble?” Jaehyun’s drug use was never revealed to the public. You would’ve known. He was one of the biggest celebrities in the world so whether you liked it or not, his life was out there for you to always get updated on. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, you name it.

“I was betting on you keeping it a secret.”

Well, that was a bombshell. “And what if I’m not the decent girl you remember?”

Jaehyun lifted an eyebrow at that. “You haven’t changed that much, Y/N.”

You asked, “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve kept up with you on Instagram and Twitter,” he blurted and turned away from you.

You coughed. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve kept up with you on-“ He said as he avoided your stare.

“How? I would’ve blocked your ass,” you said.

“messi_214 was me. On Twitter.”

Curse you for accepting any and all follows on Twitter.

This meant he had seen everything. Your One Direction phase. Your very brief 5 Seconds of Summer phase. Your descent down the anime hole. Your rants about your family and your life. Your desperate longing to go to Barcelona and meet Messi. Your crude humor with your friends.

“Oh, no,” you said as you made yourself smaller. Trying to hide.

“You are hilarious,” Jaehyun said as he laughed at your reaction.

“Oh, God, why?!” You asked yourself, Jaehyun, and the big man upstairs.

“As for Instagram, Doyoung let me scroll through your feed whenever we met up.”

“Jaehyun, that’s a little creepy.”

“I would’ve messaged directly if you didn’t hate my guts so that was the next best thing.” He shrugged.

“You lurker,” you said as you shook your head. “Tell me you didn’t see everything.”

“Believe it or not, I have a life. I’ve been pretty busy...Mrs. Irwin.” So he did see everything, including your crush on drummer Ashton Irwin.

You smacked his arm. “Son of a!”

He laughed. “Y/N, the most vile thing you’d do is trash talk Real Madrid on Twitter. So...I trust you with my secret. But...I’m letting you decide. Say something or don’t, I’ll respect it and face the consequences.”

You weren’t going to expose Jaehyun. When he told you, you knew you would take his secret to the grave.

“I won’t say anything, doofus,” you said.

He perked up at “doofus”. “Y/N, thank you.”

“I do have one favor to ask you.”

“Anything,” he said eagerly, ready to buy you a car, a dozen handbags, and a plane trip to Fiji, if you asked.

You blew out a deep breath. “Don’t lurk anymore. Just follow me on Twitter and Instagram. As yourself. Not as messi_214 or as Doyoung. I won’t block you.”

“You promise?” His eyes were hopeful.

“I promise,” you replied.

10

Yuta was on his way to pick you up from the party. He was taking you to a late drive-in movie. Hero was coming along so you were even more ecstatic. You packed a change of clothes in Kaia’s car.

You and Jaehyun parted ways after your conversation. He surprised you by asking for your number but you didn’t think too much of it. He probably just wanted to commemorate your renewed friendship. It wasn’t like he was going to call tomorrow and ask to go play air hockey at the local arcade. So you gave your number to him. You thought he was just being nice. The next time you saw him would probably be at your high school’s ten year reunion.

Kaia walked you back to her car to unlock it for you. “So how did it go with Jaehyun? I’m dying here.”

You laughed. “He explained why he blew me off and...I saw things differently. His actions aren’t excusable. But...I forgave him.” You didn’t tell Kaia about the drug use but you told her everything else.

Kaia nodded. “I see. So this means he’s probably going to ask you out soon.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Y/N, he’s been keeping tabs on you for basically a decade. I hardly think it’s because he cares about your Stranger Things updates or your song recommendations,” Kaia grabbed some chapstick from her glove compartment as you grabbed your bag.

You shook your head. Jaehyun had moved on. He probably only liked you in the most innocent way in high school, too. He probably wouldn’t have asked you out again after that. Everyone had grown up and become different people. High school was long gone. He just wanted to make amends. And you did. “Kaia, no.”

Kaia sighed. “Y/N, he likes you.”

“Kaia, he does not.”

“I saw the way he looked at you.”

You were even more confused. “When?”

“When you two were talking outside. It was obvious. When you looked away from him, I saw it in his face. He looked like it physically ached him not to touch you.”

You laughed. “Kaia, you got all that from a look?”

Kaia rolled her eyes. “If stalking you on social media isn’t proof alone, you’re hopeless.”

You leaned onto her car and looked up at the night sky. They started fireworks in the backyard. “Even If he did, it wouldn’t mean anything.”

Because Yuta captivated you. And that was that.

Kaia got back to the party as you waited in front of the security gate for Yuta. A few minutes passed and he pulled up in his Challenger. You heard barking.

Yuta pulled down the passenger side window and gave a low whistle as he looked at you in your dress. “Have mercy.”

You laughed. “Hi, baby.”

Hero jumped from the backseat to the front to lick your chin from the window. “Hi, beebs! I missed you!”

“Hey! I’m waiting for my kiss,” Yuta whined.

You opened the passenger side door and were careful not to let Hero jump out. Hero moved to the backseat. You fastened your seatbelt and looked back at Yuta, who looked like an impatient kid.

“You have to put on your seatbelt to kiss me?” He asked.

It was funny. Regardless of a car moving or not, you automatically put on your seatbelt. You blushed, about to unfasten your seatbelt when he moved over and planted his lips on your mouth. He embraced you and you felt the warmth of his skin on your bare arms.

Your heartbeat was all over the place. You loved it when he took you by surprise. Yuta was a mischievous man who liked to mess with you and reward you all at once.

He tucked your side bangs behind your ear and just smiled at you in adoration. You looked stunning and he didn’t want to share you with anyone else.

“Let’s go,” he said.

10

“So I wasn’t the first soccer player to turn your brain into mush?” Yuta was annoyed.

You told him what you told Kaia about Jaehyun because you didn’t want to keep things from him and have it blow up in your face later.

“I’m afraid not, stud,” you said. You gave Yuta all kinds of cute nicknames.

“Pisses me off,” Yuta rolled his eyes as he muttered in Japanese. Hero was sleeping in the backseat. You were at the Galaxy Drive-In Theaters. The trailers were playing before Toy Story 4 would come on.

“Are you jealous?” You loved it.

“Damn straight. You know he’s into you, don’t you? I’ll kill him.” He aggressively grabbed a handful of popcorn and shoved it in his mouth.

“Yuta,” you laughed. “He is not.”

“Don’t deny it, Y/N. That pisses me off even more.”

Honestly? It wasn’t that much of a stretch. But so what? Jaehyun had a life of his own away from Miami. God knows how many women he was sleeping with. He wouldn’t pursue you. Did he think you were hot? Probably. But that wasn’t enough incentive for him to go out of his way and ask you out. You would become an afterthought to him.

Maybe he just wanted to ease up on some of the guilt he carried. His drug use was enough for him to look back on. Earning your forgiveness must have helped him feel a little better.

“Fine,” you said. “Maybe he does like me but who cares? I like someone else.”

Yuta eased up a little, ready to hear you sing his praises.

“Taeyong is number one in my heart,” you said. Taeyong Lee had been your celebrity crush since his debut single “Let’s Get It (feat. A$AP Rocky)” came out in 2018.

“I hate you,” Yuta pouted as you snatched the popcorn.

“I know,” you said. You absolutely relished in messing with him.

Toy Story 4 was way better than you anticipated it to be and you found yourself tearing up at the slightly unexpected ending. You had a feeling it would end the way it did but you still cried. Yuta had his arm around you and you leaned in closer to him, enjoying the scent of him.

“You big baby,” Yuta said as he sniffled. It seemed he also had a soul.

“Hypocrite,” you muttered.

He laughed as he kissed the crown of your head. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” you managed to say without your voice cracking. Your first night with Yuta.

You got back to his house in record time. Hero fell back asleep in the living room, which left you and Yuta in his kitchen.

Yuta could tell you were nervous. “I can make tea. Or do you want something else to drink?”

He was so kind and considerate it killed you. “Tea’s good. I’m actually hungry. Mind if I steal a scone?” Yuta made the best blueberry scones and oddly enough, they were your favorite pastry.

He smiled. Your love of food made you all the more adorable to him. He loved feeding you. “Not at all, sweets.”

Oh yeah, he also had all sorts of cute nicknames for you, too. You two were so nauseatingly sweet that anyone who came into your vicinity needed a filling.

Once you two ate some scones and drank his favorite green tea, you walked into his bedroom.

He picked you up and sat you on his bed. His eyes were the most intense you’d ever seen them. He had his hands on your shoulders and leaned down to kiss you. You fell back on the bed and he got on top of you.

He kissed your neck and moved his way down the valley between your breasts. He looked back up at you, waiting for an answer. You nodded.

The thing about Yuta is that even though he liked to tease you and lived to make you turn red, he wanted you to feel safe and protected. He made you feel like the most precious thing in the world. Like you were above Aphrodite. So when he made love to you that night for the first time, you knew that no one could ever make you feel this good.

10

Back at Jaehyun’s party, your friends were dancing and having the time of their lives. Jaehyun surprised everyone when he halted the music once again. He stood at the top of the staircase again.

“I’ve been dying to tell you guys this all night. I was just waiting for the final confirmation from my manager. I am moving back to Miami because I am joining the Inter Miami CF team!!!!!” Jaehyun yelled at the top of his lungs.

Joanna and Taissa looked at each other and said. “Shit.”

Jaehyun looked out into the crowd and looked for you. He was so busy mingling with everyone but hoped to run into you later on so he could ask you to come see him play. But you were nowhere to be seen.

Part 4 (Coming Soon)

A/N: Thank you so much for the love for this fluff. I really appreciate it! So yes, you are correct...Someone is gonna die next chapter or get a black eye. I don’t know. But it should be fun!

[doberbutts]

can you talk about your experiences as a poc in the dog world? do you think you've been treated differently?

The sender of this ask messaged me privately to explain what they meant, which was a little different than how I took it, so I’ll answer both;

How I took the question:

In completely honesty, either because I’m already fairly choosey about the people I willingly spend my time around or because I’ve been fairly lucky... or both, existing as a PoC in the dog world hasn’t been overly hard for me on a surface level. Basically what that means is that I’ve yet to be denied a dog, access to training or an event, mentorships, whatever due to my race(s) as a factor. Additionally, in person, there’s very little outward aggression and surprisingly little microaggression happening within earshot or to my face. I’m not saying things are or are not said behind closed doors- I’ll never know. But when it comes to face-to-face interactions, since the crowd I run with is already fairly socially aware, racially charged problems have been relatively minimal. Once again, I’m very choosey on who I choose to interact with on a regular basis, so definitely do not take this as me saying doberman people or IGP people or service dog people or whatever are all living in liberal woke paradise because that is definitely the furthest thing from the truth. I just don’t interact with those people on purpose, and keep whatever I have to do with them fairly minimal.

However... online is very different. I remember at one point I had made a negative comment on a political thread, on a forum where most people (myself included) only show photos of their dogs, not themselves or any other identifying information. I was given a long spiel about them blacks and back in my day and we used to call em negros but now that’s offensive I guess in reply, to which I simply responded saying that I was black and perhaps if the user had known that they wouldn’t have responded that way. The user then switched gears, said something about my inability to handle a working dog (note: Creed had been home with me all of a single week and I had not once complained about anything to do with him) and hoping to see me fail so they could laugh in my face... and I found out later went so far as to email both my breeder and the owner of the sire to tell them to repo my dog because they’d clearly made a mistake placing him with me. This was very eye-opening for me because prior to that exchange, that user and I had known we were on different political sides but had been fairly cordial with each other regardless.

Most people who’ve been around this blog since the beginning will remember the time I was called a card-carrying member of the KKK because I had a slave, my service dog Creed. Many will remember various interactions where my race has been used against me in an argument that had nothing to do with race. And I delete almost all of the racially insensitive to outright inflammatory asks I get on a daily basis from trolls and known problem-starters. So I can’t say everything is golden in my experience, but I would say that the anonymous nature of the internet emboldens those who would otherwise keep their racism to themselves.

And, of course, the very fact that I have to navigate life in such a way that I have to carefully curate my experience or else risk someone spewing shit out of the wrong hole, but that is less a “dog world” thing and more a “life as a PoC” thing.

How they meant it: regarding the problem of high euthanasia rates in the south-eastern US and the phenomenon of PoC commonly being afraid of dogs, as well as possible socioeconomic issues

Being that I don’t live in the South and also refuse to for a wide myriad of reasons, Maryland was close enough and it was hell tyvm, I can only answer some of this issue.

First- the assumption that it’s mostly a socioeconomic issue is absolutely there. The south-eastern US is populated mostly by farmers and the descendants of the people who worked the land in the past. Loose, roaming dogs are a common thing there, as are dogs kept intact due to either lack of funds (also why heartworm and rabies continues to be a problem) or the lucrative ability to simply make more dogs for cheap instead of going out and buying one (also where the densest overpopulation and highest euthanasia happens in this country). Add on to that the fact that to many people, dogs are a tool for a job and not a living breathing animal that actually needs care or fall under this pervasive idea that they must live out all of their natural instincts including roaming freely, breeding indiscriminately, and hunting/killing whatever’s in their path, and you have a recipe for a lot of unwanted dogs and not a lot of places to put them.

Second- I wouldn’t say that PoC being afraid of dogs is necessarily tied to high euthanasia rates in the South. Many Southern PoC have dogs, of all shapes and sizes. Many Southern PoC also fall into that socioeconomic niche in the above paragraph. I would say high euth rates are more tied to a lack of funding (you can thank governments for that), a lack of willing adopters (which is cheaper- finding a litter of puppies on the side of the road and taking one home, or paying 50-400$ for a dog at a shelter), way too many dogs being taken in vs actual space to put them (and low cost clinics only solve the "funds for neuter” problem, not the "hey I can make 8 free dogs in only 2 months and maybe sell the ones I don’t want for some extra money” problem), and broad-brush breed restrictions (even in areas without BSL, if you’re poor you might not own your own property, which means you’re renting, which is harder to do with pit bulls and far easier to do with yorkies).

Then you add the non-dog-related problems these people face (of course exacerbated for PoC)- if they can’t feed themselves, if they can’t afford their own doctors, if they can’t afford housing, if their car breaks down... all of these things cost money, and if you’re operating on limited funds, you have to make a hard choice between yourself, your family, and your dog. The dog frequently loses. Note that the highest intake and euth rates happen in already very poor communities in the South, and the more wealthy the area, the less of a problem this is. This is not accidental. I have personally gone hungry to make sure the dogs are fed and vetted when I was at my poorest. Not everyone can make that choice. There’s this hope that if you give the dog up, the shelter will find someone who will take care of it better. Things don’t always work out that way.

Then you have your regular irresponsible dog owners- the people who’s dogs are untrained, aggressive, heartworm positive, on their 8th litter, constantly loose, etc. (obviously I have no problem with accidents, responsible management of aggressive and intact dogs, ethical breeding, etc) These people exist everywhere- proof of that is that I’m in New England, in a fairly wealthy area, and I still adopted a Chihuahua from someone who couldn’t afford/be bothered to feed, vet, or care for their animal. However, in my area, loose roaming dogs are very minimal. Even in our poorest nearby cities, the ACOs find maybe 5-10 dogs per week and most are adopted out the second their stray hold and health checks are up. Someone’s irresponsible with their animals and causes a problem that rescues need to clean up? There’s plenty of space for them. Compare that to an area that gets 50 loose dogs in per day and then try to add more dogs from these irresponsible owners. You run out of space, eventually. This is where the 3-day turnaround and dogs that get euthed the second they come in the door is most common, because they frankly don’t have enough room to spare.

I talk a little about the phenomenon of PoC (predominantly black PoC) being afraid of dogs here. Personally, I don’t think it’s connected, but I could be wrong.

[smeraldos]

blindside [pt. 3]

truth or lie: you can’t keep a secret.

go back [2] <

from the beginning [1] <<

pairing: jeongguk x reader

genres: angst, romance, simmering suspense 

summary: You’re studying at Korea University and working part-time at Mint, Min Yoongi’s assorted art shop. That much Jeongguk knows. What he doesn’t won’t kill him.

hint: two bts members are indirectly mentioned in this chapter…comment if you think you can guess who 👀

a/n: shoutout to worldwide lovely/spicy fic writer @crystaljins for reading my draft! (more a/n at the end)     

⌘

Halfway to the barbecue place for her sendoff party, Jiwon had taken a detour, promising you it would be quick. “What are you looking for?” you asked, following her into a clothing boutique.

“This,” she answered, showing you her phone. On her screen was a red puff-sleeved blouse adorned with small flowers.

“That’s cute.“

“I’d hope so,” she replied, flipping through a row of shirts. “It’s for my sister. She’s been whining about how Seoul has a lot more style than Jeonju. I mean, what’s the difference? They look pretty much the same to me.”

“Actually, they’re not,” you pointed out, putting back a red blouse with polka dots. “This is HQ material, of the highest quality.”

“Ah. I’m hopeless when it comes to this stuff.” She moved on to the next rack. “I just told her to study hard.”

“But if you’re getting this, wouldn’t she just bug you to buy something again?”

“That’s why I didn’t tell her. It’s just that…” Her voice trailed off. You turned to see her on tiptoe, straining to reach the blouse that matched what she’d shown you. It was on a higher rack, and because she was short, she could only grasp the hem.

When you tried, you didn’t fare much better.

“Excuse me,” Jiwon called out, catching the attention of a tall employee. “Can you help–”

“How much is this?” A woman farther off cut in, holding out a viridian dress. She soon gathered she’d interrupted Jiwon and apologized. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

To Jiwon’s surprise, the employee went to the woman first.

“Wait,” she protested as he walked past. “I–”

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, barely half as sincere as he should have been. “She called me first, but I’ll get to you right after.”

You both watched him help the woman, who you now noticed was dressed in Hermès, a Chanel bag dangling carelessly off her arm. She was pretty in a haunting way: deliberately thin, more bone than she was skin. It was obvious why the employee had gone over to help her instead of Jiwon, who - despite looking cute in your opinion - didn’t appear wealthy or waiflike.

“Can you believe it?” Your co-worker fumed. “I saw him look at me first, and he–”

She marched over to said employee, but before she could reach him, you caught sight of the shoes on display.

“Hold on,” you said, rushing to grab the tallest, sturdiest pair of heels you could find. When you returned, you placed them in front of her. “Try these.”

“What?”

You met her puzzled look with an arched brow. “Don’t you have a blouse to get?”

⌘

When you and Jiwon arrived at the restaurant, Taehyung held the door open. Min was already inside, waiting in line to claim a number for a table.

91, you read from the slip of paper he flashed upon returning. The last number called had been 80, so you excused yourself to go to the restroom. Jiwon followed suit, but she didn’t go into a stall as you did. Instead, she stood in front of the sinks, gathering her messy curls into a high ponytail.

“So are you seeing someone?” She asked, seemingly out of the blue.

“Where’s this coming from?”

“Well…we’ve known each other for a while, haven’t we? I just never really got to know you.“

Though it was true, she’d never expressed an interest in your life outside of work. Not that you minded – you were trying to keep a low profile, so you hadn’t opened up to her, either.

“I’m not,” you said, stepping out to wash your hands. “I don’t have the time.”

"Then who–”

“Who what?”

“Nevermind.”

Through the mirror, you sent her a long, pointed look until she gave in. "I bumped into a guy on my weekend shift. He said he was looking for you.”

“And you thought he was my boyfriend?”

“It was just a guess. He was wearing that same necklace you have, and I’ve never seen it on anyone else.”

You weren’t wearing yours at the moment, but you knew what she was talking about - the amethyst pendant you wore strung on a thin, silver chain. Its twin was an emerald cut into the silhouette of a dog, the zodiac animal claiming the year of your birth, so you could see why Jiwon had mistaken it for a couple necklace. In truth, it was your brother’s.

You hadn’t seen him in a while, and to be honest, you preferred to keep it that way. Yet as Jiwon described his wiry profile and ready smile, you knew that would no longer be the case.

“Did he say anything else?”

“Just if I could tell you to check your phone. Then he left.” Jiwon turned to you. “So is he a friend? It seems like you know him, and he knows you enough to visit.”

Shrugging, you said, “I knew him since we were kids.”

“And here I thought childhood friendships didn’t last. You guys must be close.”

You hummed. It was as much a yes as it was a no.

⌘

It was late when you returned to your apartment – your small, spartan place on the sixth floor of the complex. Climbing up so many stairs at once was a feat, but you didn’t feel accomplished. All you felt now was burnt out.

You unlocked the door to reveal your sofa, plush and orange, and immediately went to lie down. It was your favorite spot to rest after a long day, and you’d have stayed that way if you hadn’t seen the post-it on your fridge. check lease exp. date, you’d jotted in a hurry. It was sometime this month, but the exact day escaped you.

You got up and went to your room, crouching beside your bed so you could slide a box out from underneath. Inside it were your important files – the last place people would look for valuables was where they normally stashed things that weren’t.

You flipped through papers until you found what you were looking for: a letter, creased, bearing the logo of your residence on its corner.

Hastily, you scanned it for a date. 4/15/17. Not good. That meant you only had a few days to renew your contract or find another place, and with the way your apartment hunt was going, you doubted you’d find a new one soon.

Neither could you afford to pay your bills for the next year.

Not for the first time, you considered applying for other jobs. You’d have to find a way to work around your current ones at Mint and a high-end restaurant, but that wasn’t an issue. You’d done it before.

How long they could keep you afloat was a different matter.

At that moment, your phone buzzed. You pulled it out to see a light blinking purple, a color that belonged to only two of your apps: a fantasy game and a burner app.

You couldn’t remember the last time you played.

As it was, you opened the burner to a new message from Pink Panther. Just two images, to be exact. One was of gleaming red shoes; the other, their price tag.

You looked at the tag first, thinking he’d wanted to draw your attention to it, but the price was nothing special. Standard, considering the luxury brand. It wasn’t until you zoomed in that you noticed an unusually long string of numbers below the barcode.

0b1010111100101011110000000

You knew binary code when you saw it. Pink Panther had made sure of it, although he used it sparingly, and only in subtle hints.

This one translated to 22,960,000. In won, that would be exactly what you needed to cover your security deposit and rent for a year. How he knew was beyond you.

But you could care less. You were desperate, and you needed to respond before the timed message disappeared. And with it, the promise of keeping your home.

where can i get them? You texted back, a veiled reference to the money. As soon as you did, the images vanished.

Nothing. That was all you got in response.

You waited a while, then gave up, resigning yourself to your hapless future when an ellipsis appeared.

💬

Then finally: mirae, my face isn’t a secret. you’ll know where to find me.

...

a/n: hugs and thank you’s to everyone who showed this fic a ‘lil love and/or boosted it! hope you’ve had fun and i’m very sorry to any who were waiting - i had a lot to figure out and i’ll do my best to get the next one out as soon as i can 💜 

if you’re wondering where jk is, i really wanted to put him in this part but he’ll appear in the next chapter! thanks for reading and until then 🔍

[yepokokfine]

New OC’s

Hey guys! I’m going to introduce some new OC’s. I’m new to this so tell me if I suck lmao.

I’m going to start with their name, traits, age, character/personality.

Male:

Ashton Berry; he’s 22, brunette, and super sweet. He’s got huge blue, curious eyes and he’s super intelligent, pretty much always knowing the answer. He got straight A’s in high school which, of course, he was always made fun of for. His mom and dad both passed away from alcoholism and drugs, forcing him to live with his grandmother, so he vows to never do anything that had to do with their death (heroin, alcohol, etc). He gets what it’s like to be addicted, so he tries to help whomever he can with their issues. He met Eli in high school, and since neither of them really had enough money to live on their own, they’re now living together as roommates. Grew up in England but moved to USA with Eli when they were both 19. He thinks he is straight, but is very open-minded. He’s thought of as the druggie who lived in the hood, but tries to let everyone know that he’s much different than this image portrayed of him. He’s very empathetic and loves everyone, which can be a blessing as well as a curse. He has terrible anxiety he doesn’t like talking about except with Eli. Eli gets it. If he sees someone on the street and doesn’t have money on him when he wants to give as much as he can, he kinda freaks out. He feels as if that if he’s not helping others, he’s not doing his part. He’s not doing all he can. He’s not being the best he can possibly be. Empathy is great in the sense that he knows what people are going through a lot of the time as well as how to deal with it.

Elijah Shaws; he’s 22 as well, got almost jet black hair with green eyes. He grew up in England with Ashton as his best friend in elementary school. When he started in middle school, though, his shoulders started to dislocate frequently, requiring surgery on both shoulders in 6th grade. That being said, he got genetically tested for a disorder called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, a hyper-mobility disorder, and was tested positive. As a result of all the physical problems, he could no longer go to school or enjoy sports. He had many mental problems beginning in middle school as well. He suffered from bipolar disorder, which he was finally diagnosed with after years of being misdiagnosed with depression. His parents were very supportive and loved him no matter what, but were strongly Christian. He told them he was bi around age 15, being told that it was his choice, but they would not condone it (meaning if he said he had a crush on a guy and wanted him to come over or to go hang out with him, the answer would be no; so, therefore, he never told them when he had any crushes, especially the crush he had on Ashton). Him and Ash often hung out, although Ash did go to public school, and Eli went to a school kind of known for trouble makers that don’t go to school, who usually skip, so the school hours were 8am-12pm, giving him flexibility. He did not need it because he was a troublemaker, obviously, he needed it because he had many doctors appointments. He got made fun of a lot because he was accused of faking injuries, and called an attention-whore. He was also open with his sexuality, causing many other issues. He’s known as the emo eboy pretty much everywhere in his small town in New York, and he likes it.

Cameron Jackson; he’s 20, vastly different from his friends (Ash and Eli). He grew up in upstate New York with his very wealthy parents, his mother a well known scientist and his father a neurosurgeon. He lived with his parents and 3 older sisters until he was 17, because his parents wanted him to have fun, enjoy the world, and be independent. He has golden blonde hair and bright blue eyes and is an aspiring musician, his family and girlfriend, Kyia, very supportive. He plays piano by ear and has tried to read music but can never sight read or play and read it at the same time. His parents have always wanted to support him financially, and for the most part always have, but he likes to think that he pays for things on his own. He has a job at an animal shelter that Kyia introduced him to. He lives in his own apartment, but is thinking about buying a 2 bedroom house for him and Kyia and whoever else ;) Kyia doesn’t move incredibly fast, as she’s more traditional with romance, but they’ve been together since 15 and known each other since middle school, so he’s trying to find a good time to (hopefully) propose. He’s fully straight but has no issue with anyone who labels themselves differently. He’s always been the preppy type, but never likes to brag about money and is always willing to help anyone who needs it since he has more than enough.

Female:

Kyia Bell; she’s 24, the oldest of the group, Cam’s proud girlfriend. She has beautiful dyed lilac hair, and mesmerizing blue eyes. She’s from an average family and grew up in Missouri with them. She moved to New York with her dad after her parents divorced at age 13. Cam is four years younger than her, so she met him through a friend of her dads at that same age. She really had no childhood issues that would deliberately cause rebellion, but went through a phase in her teens where she would do drugs, go to parties, and get hammered almost every night. Her dad trusted her and let her out a lot of the time, although she had lied to him a lot. She ran away at some point in the 10th grade, but had a near death experience when she was on the streets, which caused her to be put back in her dads care until she was 19. She has many regrets, but goes to a Christian church group every Wednesday that’s very therapeutic for her. She loves Cam with all her heart and has told him, but she’s so scared that if she gives too much to him, he might use that against her. She’s had one too many betrayals in her lifetime to just jump into one’s arms. She definitely sees a future with him, but is very traditional with romance (again), and wants to get married before moving in together or doing anything more. She works at the animal shelter with Cam and loves it. She is open to anyone romantically, but wouldn’t say she’s just pan. She doesn’t really want to put a label on it. To her it doesn’t really matter. No one knows (yes, even Cam) that she lives with a girl named Aura that she met on the streets. Both of them are pretty much squatters, and she knows she can just ask Cam and in an instant, all her dreams of a big house would come true, but she’s independent. Plus, he’ll think she’s pathetic, right? Not being able to afford an apartment, spending the only money she has on more heroin? Yeah. He doesn’t know.

Aura King (meaning the distinctive atmosphere or quality that seems to surround and be generated by a person, thing, or place); she’s 21, living on the streets with Kyia. She thinks her mom is still living, but hasn’t gotten in contact with her in years, for last time she did see her, she was an abusive mess. Aura was taken away from her single mom when she was 6, and has no idea who her dad is and isn’t sure she wants to know. She was put into an orphanage, often being fostered but never adopted. When she turned 18, she booked it out of the orphanage and started living on the streets, meeting Kyia when Aura was 18 and living with her since she was 19. She’s gotten into many drugs, but really is just addicted to cigarettes. She’s done heroin, and Kyia does it very often, but is not addicted to anything but nicotine. Her hair is shaved on one side and long on the other, it’s color being a dark brown/black. She has hazel eyes. She needs financial help and/or a good paying job and knows Kyia would be able to help, but doesn’t want to bother her or be a burden.

Alexina David (meaning defending); she’s 23, and just moved to New York with her sister from where she grew up in California. She and her sister are beautiful Asian girls, although they are very hesitant on sharing with anyone who their parents are, apparently they were not good people. She’s a very young and successful accountant, carrying on her adopted family’s business. She grew up with 7 siblings and loving adopted parents who, unfortunately, never got to spend much time with her or her sister, Belva. Her and Belva moved out when she was 18, coming to New York only 6 months ago after nearly 5 years of renting in California near their parents. Their parents now are very accepting, so Alexina shares just about everything with them, except the things she thinks will worry them. She never wants to worry them or hurt them. She is a recovering bulimic, still going to therapy from time to time. Belva doesn’t know and to Alexina, she doesn’t have to, ever. She’s never going to voluntarily stress her sister out. No. Not when Bel already has so much on her plate.

Belva David (meaning beautiful view); she’s 19, the youngest of the group, hanging out with Aura, whom she met at a mental hospital right when she turned 19. Bel has lots of issues with suicidal thoughts and has attempted 3 times in her lifetime. She shares everything with her sister now, although she used to be the complete opposite - quiet and closed off. But after the 3rd attempt caused her to go to a mental hospital, she was done hiding. She wanted to get better and, slowly, was doing exactly that. She hangs with her sister a lot, even though she hangs out with Aura more. Her sister is a worry wart, so Bel knew that she pretty much had to hang with Alex so that she wouldn’t get suspicious or upset. Belva’s trying to find a girl to be more than just a friend to her, but she still hasn’t found the right person. Aura’s straight, right? Yeah. She’d think Bel was crazy if she ever said anything about her little (big) crush

Things I will write:

Emeto

Whump

Injury

I’ll write many things honestly. I’m open to new things (obviously that aren’t on the things I don’t write list)

Marvel (mostly irondad! and spiderson!)

Things I won’t write:

NSFW

Omo

Y/N or reader x anyone else

Thanks for reading!!!! Any requests? Send them to me! Anything is appreciated. Thanks :)

[dondake]

[mistagio] roman holiday

rating: t summary: Mista doesn’t target tourists, but he’ll make exceptions. AO3 Link

It wasn’t that Guido Mista was homeless, except - ever since he was evicted for not paying three months worth of rent (“I’ll have it next week...or the week after that, promise on my grandmother’s grave.”), he had been flitting from couch to couch to keep a roof over his head. And it wasn’t that he was penniless and couldn’t afford even a bare bones efficiency, as his stars shone over him and let him move from part time job to part time job as he pleased, but it was a hassle to negotiate lease terms and bicker with new landlords. After Bruno politely kicked him out after two weeks and Fugo forbade him from taking advantage of Narancia’s generosity for more than two whole months, Mista had taken to honing his charisma to charm his way into the beds of those who would take him. But now the girl he had been staying with, a trusting assistant baker, had hesitantly asked him when he thought the plumbing at his place would eventually be fixed and he knew his days on her borrowed patience was coming to an end.

Taking some money from her counter, he told her he would go check on his apartment and come back with pastries and espresso and trotted down the alleyway behind the building with no intention of returning. The sun was beginning to peek through the tops of the trees sparsely littering the street; the weather was going to be nice for the next few days, which was fortunate if he struck out and had to resort to sleeping in the park for the night. Of course, that was not preferable, so he did go to the closest shop and buy buttery cornetti and three cups of hot coffee.

Narancia was outside his store when Mista came up, keeping his gait casual. While Narancia was not one to notice the mood, he did not need the boy tipping Fugo off about his intentions before he had properly launched into his petition. “Oh, it’s you, Mista.” Setting up his sign, promising accurate models and other handcrafted figures if one would just step inside, Narancia straightened up and grinned. “I was wondering if you’d gone ahead and got married! That’s got to be the longest time you’ve overstayed your welcome like that!”

“Good morning to you too,” Mista said, choosing to ignore the backhanded commentary. “Have you eaten yet? I thought about you when I was getting breakfast; there’s some for the sour thistle too, before he chases me out for not being an accommodating guest.”

“Well, I’m not going to say no to food! Come on in.”

What he needed, Mista thought, was a reliable source of income. Narancia had been every bit of a blue collar, bullet-nosed kid raised on the streets like he was, but now he was the proprietor of a humble little toy shop on one of the main streets of Naples. While it was no fancy boutique, the wooden shelves were neatly painted, polished, and sturdy, holding the metal miniatures of airplanes and trains that were imported from Spain. The shades were drawn closest to the stuffed animals on the west wall, and the middle of the floor plan held the delicate tables where the carved wooden pieces Narancia whittled and tinkered with were displayed. Narancia was good with his hands, good with a blade, but he would have been any ordinary craftsman were it not for the scowling man who glowered at Mista as he approached the back counter.

“What do you want, Mista,” Fugo said. Heir to a wealthy import company, he had since wrested his share of the family fortune to co-own Arrowsmith with Narancia as the shop’s bookkeeper and sales liaison. “No, you cannot stay the night with Narancia. Have you cycled through your little black book of friends already?”

“Oh, what’s it to you,” Mista scoffed, putting the coffees down on the counter and pulling his hands away in time to avoid Narancia’s grabbing for his share. “You’re not Narancia’s roommate and you aren’t sleeping with him, so I’m not displacing you or anything.” Only Narancia was oblivious enough to think Fugo had no ulterior motives for providing the capital for his shop and staying behind after closing to teach him how to accurately calculate his profits for the day. The comment made Fugo’s mouth twist, a mortified shade of pink coloring his ears.

“You got kicked out? Do you need a place to stay?” Narancia said, between bites of pastry.

“Maybe. I’ll get back to you. You’ll lend me your couch for a night or two, won’t you? Can’t you help your pal, who’s down on his luck?”

Narancia opened his mouth to say yes, but Fugo spoke up first and louder. “Just find your own place already, Mista. Aren’t you tired of moving from place to place? I can’t imagine what this is doing to your sleep cycle. You do know that people’s brains don’t fully settle when they’re in new surroundings for the first time, right? You’re not feeling well rested because your body is in a state of alert since you keep changing bedrooms.”

“You could have cured cancer if you weren’t playing with toys,” Mista said, waving a hand to dismiss him. “How about it, Narancia? Only if I can’t find someone to room with. You know I stay out; you won’t even know I’m there.”

Narancia opened his mouth again, before closing it and glancing at Fugo. For a horrified moment, Mista thought he had lost his closest ally to the clumsy advances of someone younger than both of them, who insisted that his clothes weren’t raggedy, they were worn and lived in. But Narancia shifted the weight in his feet anxiously and said, “Well...maybe, okay. Only for a few days. Fugo got us a contract with the tourism board so I’ve got to make some miniatures of the Duomo di Napoli that they’ll sell in their offices. You know a ton of people go through them, so it could really put...put Arrowsmith on the map.” This was Fugo’s script, for sure. “But...and don’t take this the wrong way, but when you’re around, I won’t get them all done in time. I mean, I like hanging out with you, but you really go all out sometimes and that’s fun, but…”

“I get it, I get it.” Mista shrugged. Perhaps he had taken the wrong gamble and should have visited Bruno first with the breakfast money; now he would need to needle the bureaucrat empty-handed. “That’s great, though. Can you imagine the things you make sitting in the houses of someone from across the ocean?”

“Yeah! And I won’t need to make Fugo translate for me to sell them.” Fugo, with his knowledge of several major languages, was invaluable for a little local shop that attracted tourists with artisanal tastes; Narancia was a favorite with the kids in the neighborhood, but he let Fugo do the talking for the rest of their clientele.

Mista raised his brows. “Then you’d better look for another job, since Narancia won’t need you anymore soon.”

Fugo was finished with his espresso or else he would have probably thrown it in Mista’s face. “Just get out, you freeloader.”

Bruno would most likely be busy at this point in the morning and would not be particularly generous while he was at his office; Trish was probably sleeping and her wrath at being deprived of her beauty sleep would make Bruno even less inclined to do him any favors. The shipping company he was with would not be receiving any deliveries until later in the week, so he was waiting on his heels for his next paycheck. His best bet was to linger in the marketplace and do any odd jobs and run errands for pittance to get a bed in one of the back alley hostels. If he was lucky, he’d find his next victim - he was good at scoping out someone who was good natured and trusting of his sob stories, even if they weren’t always convincing.

The marketplace was becoming busy, with older women making the rounds to snatch the freshest produce before the latecomers arrived. Hanging back, Mista took stock of the girls running the stands; he had fooled around with Maria’s sister, so she would be wary around him; Felicia was friends with two girls whom he had parted with on bad terms, so she was also a no go. He doubted Anna would want to pick up her brother’s sloppy seconds, and he was not eager to reintroduce himself into Antonio’s household anyway. There were a few fresh faces that Mista did not recognize; they were most likely tourists by the way they were looking around with careless awe. Their pockets would be picked before the sun set. Mista did not usually try to pick up tourists; they became too cautious when he suggested they return to their hotel and he had to admit he did not really look the part of a good, upstanding Italian citizen.

While most of the tourists were traveling in tight packs, there was one person wandering by himself. Holding a piece of paper, the blonde stranger walked down each aisle with careful precision, examining each table’s wares. He was dressed too well to be an American and his features were decidedly European, though Mista would not be surprised if he was biracial with his less severe cheekbones and a lighter skin tone than the Italians in the region. In fact, Mista had been about to write the man off as a native until the man came closer and Mista saw through the paper what looked to be an address and a crudely drawn map. Naples was big, but not big enough to confuse someone who had lived in the area for years. “Hey,” he called, leaning back against the fountain to expose his neck and appear open and unthreatening. The man turned to him, startled but not jumpy; this was a tourist who had been to Italy before or had a good enough head on his shoulders not to be fooled by more basic swindlers. “Are you looking for something? Do you need any help?”

The man stared at him for a long, silent moment. “I’m looking for a particular dried goods store. I was told that they sometimes sell here, but I can’t seem to find them. I’ve just recently arrived, so I’m still figuring out my directions.”

“Oh? Let me see; I can probably point you in the right direction.” Speed Wagon was an old establishment, well known despite not being on a very public street. “It’s pretty close, maybe a ten minute walk. Just go up until you get to the seamstress, then bear left and go diagonally across the square and pass the newspaper stand and the butcher. But not the butcher with the hog’s head plaque; you need to go further to the one with the wreath of grain. It should be down the cobblestone side street.” He was being purposefully vague with his directions, practiced in casually using his hands to talk. He would not offer to take him there; it had to be a request, so he knew he was not wasting his time with someone as vigilant as Bruno.

The man took back the paper with the address and terrible map and stared at it for another long moment. “I suppose you won’t help me out any more without a price. I’m a sitting duck, with how I’ve told you that I’m new to the area. But I’m Italian, just like you are; I can navigate my motherland even with that convoluted explanation.” He began to walk away, only pausing when Mista began to laugh.

“Alright, alright. I’ll help you out. For free, and you can hold that on my good name.” The stubborn ones were fun; the prideful ones made his conquest even better. This tourist could appeal to his nationalistic side all he wanted, but he was still new to Italy and Mista had no loyalty to someone who had chosen to call somewhere else home.

“Then you should share your good name,” the man prompted. Mista laughed again; everyone here knew of him, and he had done most everyone a favor once or twice. His enemies would be the enemies of any tourist, prepared or not, so he had no fear of revealing himself.

“Guido Mista. Call me Mista; that’s what everyone else does.” The man did not volunteer his name, but Mista looked at the piece of the paper with the address that had an elaborate letterhead. “I’m going to assume that GG are your initials; care to return the favor?” A nice letterhead - and the man was wearing nice leather shoes and a nice pressed shirt. Tourists with money were hard to crack, but the payoff was always worth it.

“Giorno. Giorno Giovanna.”

“Alright. Matches your hair.” The sun was just as bright a gold as Giorno’s head, a neat plait as perfect as a meticulously shaped challah. It was appropriate, Mista thought; he appreciated a good looking man when he saw one. It was natural that those who were blessed with classically beautiful features attracted people to themselves. Bruno was polished and put together and Trish had good proportions; she might have had inherited roots in government with a politician father, but Mista always thought they would have had their names in the papers by look alone. To contrast, Abbacchio was a peace officer who operated alone because he was just too gloomy.

“So how long have you been in Naples?” Tourist marks got nervous if you were too quiet. And frankly, Giorno’s guardedness and understated privilege suggested that Mista might get the jump on if he wasn’t careful himself.

“Only a few days. My...father has a few affairs he wants me to take care of at his house.”

“Your family house is in the area? How can you say you’re new? Where are you coming from?”

If Giorno was put off by his questioning, he did not show it. “I’ve spent some time in Florence and Rome, but I’ve returned from Japan after visiting my mother. It is unfortunately time I cannot get back.”

“Tell me about it! My mother will never get off my case when I go home; she’s always asking what I’ve done with my life. Nothing, apparently, since I’m still alive, huh?”

That made Giorno chuckle, though level and restrained. Still, the sound had a funny way of sticking in Mista’s ear. A passing thought wondered what Giorno’s genuine laugh would sound like. He felt Giorno’s eyes case over his head at the hog’s head sign over the first butcher and then at the grain wreath over the second butcher’s door. What a little fool - only a novice thief would lie about everything from the start. They arrived at Speed Wagon, tucked away in a back street with only a flickering light illuminating the spoked wheel crest. “Thank you,” Giorno said. “For helping me find this place.”

“No problem. Actually, now that I’m here, I guess I’ll grab some jerky for a snack. May as well, since I’m never over here.” Again, Giorno’s apprehension of Mista sticking around didn’t show on his face, and he held the door open for Mista. Wandering into a back corner, he kept his ears alert as Giorno approached the counter.

“Pick-up? Under what name?”

Giorno paused. “Dio,” he murmured. Mista heard the crumple of the paper in his hands and looked between the shelves at Giorno pushing it into his pocket.

“Ah...our least favorite regular. Will he be visiting the house soon?”

“I guess so. His business is none of mine.”

There seemed to be some unspoken understanding between Giorno and the shopkeep. Mista had never heard of the Giovanna name, nor of a Dio, but he was not one to rub shoulders with the elite. He’d keep the names in mind to ask Bruno, who had his hand to the pulse of the city. “I only ask because...his order was three cases of red wine. Now, I’m not doubting your strength but this is a tall order for a single person and I know your father is...particular of who fetches his things and enters his house.”

“Wine? I thought this was a dried goods shop.”

“We are. But you must understand we also have connections and will carry what we’re asked of.” The man brought out each case of bottles and set them on the counter with a significant weight behind the sound of them settling on the wood. “You could carry them individually but I suspect it will take time for each…”

“I’ll help,” Mista volunteered, stepping out from where he had been watching. Giorno did not seem surprised at his suggestion. Mista thought that Giorno had been aware of his whereabouts the entire time they had been in Speed Wagon. “I’m currently working out at the docks; two cases should be no problem.”

The shopkeeper turned to Giorno. “A family friend?”

“That would be generous.” Giorno studied the wine. “I suppose I have no choice but to rely on you again, Mista.”

Upon leaving Speed Wagon, Giorno did not return to the main road, where most of the cars were parked. Hitching the crates of wine under his arm, Mista hoped whatever penthouse suite Giorno was returning to was far enough away that he could really flex and show off his muscle definition to sweeten the deal. But Giorno merely continued walking, a crate of wine in his hands, and walked right out of the center of the city. Mista was no slouch, he worked out in his spare time, but he did not usually carry heavy items for significant distances. Just as he contemplated asking Giorno for a break, they emerged from the road to a grand villa on the outskirts of Naples, right where the buildings began to move further and further from each other. “Welcome to my father’s house,” Giorno said, gazing up at the gate in front of them. He turned back to Mista, quietly and expectedly.

“You aren’t going to invite me in, give me a drink or nothing?”

Giorno sighed, but he allowed Mista to follow him into the main house. Mista had gone to a nice house like this once, when he was temping for a catering firm, but the constant flow of guests had kept him from really taking in the extravagance. The pillars bordering the little courtyard inside, where a red clay fountain bubbled in the center surrounded by lush shrubbery, had to be made from stone straight from the source, smoothed by hand. The floor was marble tile, with barely a scratch. Giorno’s shoes were real leather, but Mista’s sandals were almost dirt cheap and boldly striding across enough stone worth a month’s paycheck. They bypassed the kitchen and Giorno led him to a small, cool wine cellar at the foot of a flight of wooden stairs. The three crates of wine seemed insignificant against the already impressive collection displayed around them. Giorno set his crate on the ground and Mista stacked his on top, casually rubbing his biceps with as little expression as he could muster. He would be sore tomorrow, for sure.

“Thank you again,” Giorno said.

“Sure thing.” Mista stared up at the dirt ceiling, his voice sinking into the soil and brick around them. “Do you wanna fuck?”

“Here?”

“Uh, no, unless you want to. I’m sure there’s got to be a bed or something in this huge house.”

Giorno blinked his beautiful blue eyes at him. The adrenaline was really coursing through his blood if he was being this reckless, calling Giorno beautiful despite knowing the man for less than half a day. Mista knew his way around many a beautiful Italian, but there was something different in the way Giorno carried himself - ethereal, yet the gold around the edges could be pure and soft or gold plated pewter. Mista wouldn’t know, but he did want to take the risk and sink his teeth in. “I thought you said you wanted to come in for a drink,” Giorno said, finally. He cradled his arms in front of his chest, defensively, but it wasn’t a no.

“We can get a drink and then we can fuck. What, do you have an order you like to do these things in?”

Giorno poured two tall glasses of water, as they had been lifting wine in the sun, but they were left mostly full on the table next to the window. Mista doubted the bedroom Giorno brought them to was his own, personal one, but with the different rooms they had passed, Giorno could sleep in a different bed for each night of the week and it wouldn’t matter. Tourists scrambled to explore Naples on a budget, but lucky boys like Giorno only had to to book a flight and fall right into his father’s house for a quick holiday. It made Mista feel less guilty fucking Giorno right into what felt like expensive sheets, paid for by a faceless older man. Giorno’s skin was hot in his hands, a flash of fire, like the setting sun. He hadn’t timed it right, Mista though, wiping his brow with his wrist, buried halfway into the boy beneath him. If had bided his time and waited until the sun was completely below the horizon, he could spin a tale that it was just worth it to stay the night.

“You’re distracted,” Giorno said, reaching back and pulling Mista close by the hip. “Finish what you started.”  

Afterwards, they returned to the city for dinner. Giorno was leaning against the wall, the buttons on his shirt done low so Mista could see dark red hickeys where neck met shoulder, staring out the window of the pizzeria when Bruno walked up to the table.

“I heard from Fugo that you would be looking for me, but it looks like you won’t be needing my help.” Bruno was not one to judge openly, but Mista knew he had seen them from a distance and had studied Mista, hunched forward in his chair over his plate, and Giorno, practically sprawled along the booth. “Who is your acquaintance?”

“Bucciarati, this is Giorno. Giorno, here’s the man who practically runs all of Naples. Effectively.”

“A pleasure,” Giorno said, taking the hand Bruno extended to him. “Bruno Bucciarati. I’ve heard of you. If you’re here, then you must also be with--”

“We should order pick-up next time,” Trish said, sliding up to Bruno’s side and wrapping an arm around his arm. “Ugh. They’ve got a new girl taking orders and she’s seen me perform before. I could not get in a word edgewise. She’ll get her mother, or her father, so be careful and don’t engage. We’ll be here until midnight if we let her chatty family catch us.” Trish let her complaint trial off, recognizing Mista, who had returned to eating. “Oh, hello Mista. Haven’t seen you in a while. Who’s your catch now?”

“Trish,” Mista said, giving her a look. Bruno clasped a hand over hers on his arm and squeezed - subtly, but Mista saw Giorno follow the movement with his eyes. “Giorno. Giorno, Trish.” He hated introducing the people he was sleeping with to the gang. Without labels, it became awkward and troublesome to describe. Not that there was a label for someone he had only slept with once, but he was regretting not going somewhere with a lower likelihood of running into someone he would know.

“A little...no, a lot out of your strike zone, Mista. Oh, I’m kidding!” Trish threw her hands up. “Can’t a girl make a joke! It’s nice to meet you, Giorno. Don’t mind me, but I hope you’re keeping Mista in check. He’s really not for everyone.”

“He’s not,” Giorno agreed.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Bruno said. “Are you new to Naples?”

“My flight landed two days ago. I’m just getting over the jetlag.”

“I see. I welcome you to the city. As Mista so generally put it, I do work in administration so it’s my duty to make sure your time here is enjoyable.”

“There’s so much more to see than Mista’s random assortment of haunts,” Trish said, laughing when Mista began waving her off. “I’m not performing until Thursday, so hopefully you’ll be free then and can come watch. Bruno always reserves a table, and I’m sure he’d love the company.”

“You’ll love his company until Trish is done performing, then you’re a third wheel,” Mista groused. “Hey, Bucciarati. I actually think I will come over. When will you be home?”

Giorno turned to him. “How long are you planning to be out? I’m a little tired as it is, so I don’t know if I can stay out too late.”

Closing his mouth before it was obvious he had let his jaw drop, Mista put down his piece of pizza. “You...want me to come back to your place with you?”

Trish leaned into Bruno’s shoulder. “I think we should leave them now,” she whispered, loud enough for Mista to overhear. Bruno offered a polite farewell before excusing the both of them. They sat a fair distance away, and for Trish’s credit, did not look back or watch them.

“I just,” said Mista, “didn’t think you’d...I mean - I had a good time, but you’ve only got so much time before you’ve got to go-” He was shooting himself in the foot; he wanted a place to sleep, and now he was talking too much. There had been others who had been enamored early, whom Mista had taken full advantage of, but it was the unlikely combination of Giorno’s means and options he was bound to have - and Trish was right, boys like Mista could be found on any block in any neighborhood.

“Go? Where am I going?”

“You’re on holiday, aren’t you? Staying at your father’s house?”

Giorno studied him. “I’m not on holiday. I’ve just moved here. My father’s gifted me his house, so yes, I’ve got some of his affairs to take care of, but I own that property. It’s big to be alone in, and while I must admit you wouldn’t have been my first choice…” He folded his hands, and Mista felt rooted in place, caught in Giorno’s snare. “Unless, you mean to say that you only slept with me because you were expecting never to see me again.” He wore a frown, but there was no real heat in it. Giorno could find someone else and forget him with a blink of an eye.

Mista felt able to breathe again, exhaling with a shaky laugh. “It would have been easier,” he admitted. He followed Giorno back to the villa, back to the same room, and they fucked again, lazily because Giorno was tired. What a brilliant stroke of luck, Mista thought. He had a roof over his head for the night. But more than that - he was known to be a bit laser focused when catching someone in his sniper scope, unrelenting until he’d gotten what he wanted. It had been a while since he’d been caught in the crosshairs of someone else’s aim, and the gaze Giorno had on him wasn’t besotted but one of conquest. Giorno had full intention of making him kneel, pledging his loyalties to a golden haired golden boy - and while Mista had no intention of bending to another’s will, the thought of submitting to Giorno made him shiver.

“I hope you won’t mind,” Giorno yawned, swadling himself with pillows as Mista laid next to him, staring at a curious star-shaped birthmark on his nape, “but I’ve offered board to one of my closest advisors while I’m here. Polnareff knows to be discreet, but I’d rather keep my private life private.”

“Is that all you think of me as?” Mista asked, grinning cheekily. “An on-call booty call, kept man that you can summon at any time, left to wander on my own when you don’t want me?”

Giorno ran his fingers through his hair, curly from the braid. “Is that such a bad life?” He rolled over, coming up so close that he pushed Mista onto his back and splayed his fingers out on his chest. “Tell you what - I know this estate’s been the place of many attempted break-ins while my father wasn’t around. You can be the hired muscle to keep my enemies away from me. In exchange, I won’t expect you to be at peak performance whenever I want you.” Giorno leaned in, and Mista remembered they hadn’t kissed - and in spite of himself, his breath caught in his throat. It was the kiss of death, and he was signing away his life to be in Giorno’s services. It wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for a carefree life, but as he kissed back, he thought it was excusable for now.

[180abroad]

Days 126-127: Edinburgh, Part 2 (History, Hiking, and Beer)

Our last two days in Edinburgh marked the two-thirds point of our journey in Europe, and the halfway point of my dad's stay with us in Scotland. So far, all we'd really seen of the city itself was the castle, the Whisky Experience, and a few square blocks around the train station in New Town. There's far too much for us to try and see everything, so we picked out a few top choices and did our best to enjoy them as much as possible.

After saying hello to the neighborhood cat, we took the bus into town toward our first stop of the day--the National Museum of Scotland. Now that we'd figured out Edinburgh's bus system, it was actually pretty easy and convenient. And compared to underground metros, buses give you a much better sense of how a city fits together.

We got a closer look at the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, a legendary local terrier who faithfully guarded his master's grave for 14 years until his own death in 1872.

Passing Bobby by, we headed on toward the museum.

The ground floor entry hall had a diverse collection, including a 19th-century Japanese lantern presented on a precisely shin-high marble plinth. It's funny--when I ate it in the Rif Mountains of Morocco, tearing a hole in my pant leg and scraping up my knee, it healed up just fine after a few days. But when I banged my shin against that stone platform without leaving the slightest mark on my pant leg, it took off a chunk of skin underneath and left a deep scar that's still conspicuously purple six months later.

After killing some time in the gift shop--where I found a miniature Blackwatch-patterned umbrella to replace the much-bulkier one I'd been carrying--we joined up with a free tour that introduced us to the various sections of the museum.

The Museum can be roughly divided into four sections: a Scottish history museum, a science and technology museum, a world cultures museum, and a natural history museum. It doesn’t compare to the British Museum in London, of course, but nothing can.

We saw a ridiculously complicated clock that our guide complained never works quite right.

We also saw Dolly the Sheep, the first-ever successfully cloned mammal. Not a recreation--they actually stuffed her after she died and put her on display. We appreciated the attention to detail with regard to the sheep poop at her feet.

The museum is huge. At the center is a massive Victorian hall inspired by the Crystal Palace that used to stand in London. To us, it looked uncannily like the panopticon of Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin. Our guide was nice, but he was so soft-spoken that we could barely hear him most of the time. Once we felt sufficiently oriented, we broke off and went back to the exhibits we were most interested in.

We spent most of our time in the Scottish history museum, which contains a very impressive (and well-displayed) collection of artifacts either made or found in Scotland, dating from prehistoric times up into the 21st century. Limited on time, we mainly stuck to the medieval history floor.

To either side of an old stone inscribed with Celtic knotwork, the walls bear a quote from the Declaration of Arbroath, a 14-century plea from the people of Scotland to Pope John XXII for support in their battle against the invading English army:

For we fight not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, but for Freedom alone, which no good man gives up except with his life. As long as only one hundred of us remain alive we will never on any conditions be brought under English rule.

One of the highlights of the medieval collection are the Lewis Chessmen, part of a medieval Viking chess set discovered on the remote Scottish island of Lewis and Harris.

Eleven pieces of the set are here at the National Museum of Scotland, while the rest are in the British Museum in London. They are carved from walrus ivory and whale teeth with remarkable detail and emotiveness. They could be characters straight out of a modern animated Viking movie.

The rooks are depicted as berserkers chewing their own shields in battle frenzy.

Nearby, we saw the remains of a Celtic cross from Islay, another Scottish island where we'd be staying next after Edinburgh.

Some other highlights included a 17th-century Scottish flag said to have been carried in battle against Oliver Cromwell, a Celtic harp that may be the twin to the Brian Boru Harp at Dublin’s Trinity College, intricately detailed jewelry, some beautifully engraved early firearms, and a precursor to the guillotine known as “the Maiden”--gently used.

Upstairs, they have a good section on the Jacobite rebellions, when the ousted Stuart kings of England returned to their native Scotland to raise an army and reclaim the throne in London. It was a hopeless cause, and after three generations the rebellions finally died out.

Finally, we browsed through a section on the 1700s, when industries like textile weaving and coal mining were starting to boom like never before.

At the top of the museum, we discovered a fabulous view of the castle to the northwest and of the mountainous Salisbury Crags and Arthur's Seat to the east.

During one of our tours, our guide mentioned Arthur's Seat--a tall volcanic plug that overlooks the city--in a warning against taking online reviews at face value. Apparently, someone on TripAdvisor left a one-star review complaining that it was "just a hill."

The elevator was abominably slow--after spending a good while taking pictures on the roof, we returned to find people who had left the rooftop as we arrived still waiting for the elevator to make its next return. When it finally arrived, we weren't able to fit in, so we decided to make our way down the stairs instead. That may have been a mistake, though. The stairwells and back corridors were so maze-like that we literally caught ourselves going in circles before finding a room we recognized. It was like being back at the Lyon bus terminal.

After the National Museum, I headed off on my own to do some shopping in New Town. Second-guessing my decision to not buy shoes until after Islay, I wanted to see if I could find anything good in the last big English-speaking city we'd be staying in. I didn't find shoes, but I did get some spectacular views.

One of the most striking things about Old Town is it's verticality, which I've mentioned before. The old stone buildings seem to be scrambling up on each other's shoulders, reaching for the sky. We'd also learned from Nik the day before that this is part of an Edinburgh tradition that far predates them. Throughout the Middle Ages, when the city was mostly made of wood, the constricting city walls forced people to build up, creating towering wooden "skyscrapers" that frequently fell down or caught fire. They were crammed with people, and the ensuing sanitation issues were legendary across Europe. It got so bad that Edinburgh earned the nickname Old Reeky.

That was why, in the 1700s, the wealthier citizens finally decided to escape the city walls and build a spacious Georgian-style New Town to the north.

Down in the park where the castle moat used to be, people were crowding to see drum corps performing. August was still a couple weeks away, but the festival season atmosphere was alive and well.

Meanwhile, Jessica and my dad searched out a pub where we could hole up and watch the final World Cup game between Croatia (who we were rooting for) and France. We’ve learned that Scottish people tend to have a great affinity for the French, if only because of their shared rivalry with the English. When the final whistle marked France's victory, the pub erupted in a celebration unlike anything I've ever seen in person.

Emerging back into the overcast sunlight, we cooled off with a relaxing walk down the breezy Royal Mile. We wanted to get some dinner at the famous World’s End pub, but it was full up. The pub's name dates back to a time when it butted against the old city walls. Anyone entering the city had to pay a steep toll to pass through the gates, even if they were residents. For many people, this meant that if they ever left the city, they might never be able to get back in. To them, this pub might as well have been the world's end.

We turned back and ended up enjoying a wonderful dinner at an Indian-Thai hybrid restaurant--once we were finally able to find the door.

After dinner, we strolled the rest of the way down the Royal Mile to Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh's royal palace. It was well past closing time, but we were able to get a good view through the gates.

We also got to see the distinctive architectural style of the of the Scottish Parliament Building, and the Salisbury Crags jutting up dramatically behind them.

We'd be returning first thing tomorrow morning to hike the trail that runs beneath them. But for now, we ran to catch the bus that would take us back home. We tried to get my dad to watch the pilot episode of The Expanse, but we didn’t quite make it to the end before we were all starting to drift off.

The next morning, we bused back to Holyrood Palace and picked up where we left off--facing down the Salisbury Crags.

We--or at least I--didn't have the time or nerve to climb the larger Arthur's seat, but the Crags offered a nice compromise. And we didn't actually climb the top of the Crags. Rather, we followed the Radical Road that runs halfway up the Crags, along the foot of the cliff face.

The Radical Road is named for a group of workers that took part in a nationwide strike in 1820 known as the Radical War. Wealthy Scottish citizens like Sir Walter Scot who supported the Radicals decided to support them by paying them to do other work while they were on strike--such as building a completely unnecessary road midway up the Salisbury Crags and parallel to a perfectly serviceable road that already existed.

The beginning was steep, and my dad and I quickly started to question our decision, but all doubts were erased as we got high enough to see the view over the city.

At its height, the road cuts through Hollyrood Park, which used to be the private hunting grounds of the kings and queens of Scotland.

Reaching the end of the Radical Road, we kept on going toward the neighborhood of Duddingston and the highly-recommended Sheep Heid Inn. The inn has reputedly been in operation for over 600 years, which would make it the oldest pub in Edinburgh and possibly all of Scotland. The name comes from the old Scotts English for sheep’s head. The popular explanation is that King James VI of Scotland (and I of England) presented the pub owners with a golden snuff box engraved with a ram’s head on the lid. The pub was halfway between two royal residences, so James would often visit the pub along the way.

The kitchen wasn't quite open yet, so the three of us ordered drinks and enjoyed a rest after our hike. Once the kitchen opened, the food turned out to be just as spectacular as all the people who'd recommended it to us said. Jessica and I both had linguine with crab, shrimp, and chorizo. I don't even like seafood, but I loved that meal.

After lunch, we took an Uber back to the World’s End, where we each had a shot of Drambuie in honor of my dad’s Scottish friend John. For those of you who didn't know either, Drambuie is a sweet liqueur made from Scotch whisky, honey, and spices. A very distinctive beverage, it somehow manages to be both delicious and disgusting at the same time.

Our long-awaited toast complete, we decided to make it an official pub crawl and continued over to the BrewDog pub on Cowgate. My dad and I had learned about Brewdog from the TV show Brew Dogs, where the two Scottish brewers who run BrewDog travel the US crafting locally inspired novelty beers and converting beer skeptics to the way of the hop.

My dad had their signature Punk IPA, and I had their 5AM Saint red ale. I generally don’t like IPAs, but the Punk was surprisingly well-balanced despite being so hoppy. It had the sour and citrusy notes of a typical IPA, but very little bitterness. My ale was also surprisingly good. It was hoppier than any other red or amber ale I’ve had before, but the bright hoppy notes actually did a great job balancing out the ale and making it refreshing instead of heavy.

Jessica had a cider that was pretty good, too.

Went to St. Giles’ Cathedral, the seat of the Church of Scotland. It isn’t the largest, but it is stunning inside. The stained glass is mostly modern, but it is strikingly good.

It's free to enter the cathedral, but you are expected to pay if you want to take pictures. And we can confirm that the people working there will not hesitate to call you out for breaking the rule.

We still had some shopping to do--including picking up something for dinner--so we decided to walk over to New Town. I lead us along my footsteps from the previous day, taking Jessica and my dad through narrow closes and down the hill.

Tomorrow, we would head out early for Islay, so we caught a bus home with plenty of time to rest up and start packing.

Before I close our chapter on Edinburgh, I have to mention our charming hosts, Joyce and Ian. They were very kind and accommodating, but sometimes we felt that they didn't expect us to take them up on their offers as much as we did.

For example, they said we couldn’t use the kitchen to cook, but we could use it to heat a ready meal up in the oven. On our last night, we bought some meat pies that we didn’t realize at first weren’t microwavable. Ian said that it would be no problem for us to use the oven, and he even showed us some tips on how to get the crust to brown up just right. But when Joyce showed up and asked suspiciously what we were up to, Ian was nowhere to be seen.

It was a good time, and I’m glad that Jessica and I got to enjoy the British bed and breakfast experience several times during our months on the island. But we really found out just how strongly we prefer having a place to ourselves with a proper kitchen that we can use whenever we want.

Next Post: Islay (Introduction and Arrival)

Last Post: Hadrian’s Wall and the Scottish Borders

[247krp]

— Rejoice, little lambs! We have recovered our own Yu-Cai Qiu Yazhu, spotted prancing about in the Southwest Side. I remember seeing him with The Party Animals back in high school, but I’m not here to spill yesterday’s tea. So straight to the rundown: can you say zealous and reckless? Apparently now he spends time as a college drop-out and part-time entrepreneur of sports cars, and keeps skeletons buried at Macheon Hill Gated Community, 202. But those won’t stay hidden for long, if you and I have any say on it. Welcome back, The Sybarite Prince; we missed you so.

TW: mental disorders, drugs, fraternities, and ableism

In case you don’t remember the devil’s name, here’s to refresh your memory:

Qiu lives on the wild side of things, he likes things that get his adrenaline pumping and everything else that can make anyone scream. He’s always on the constant go, running around meeting just about anyone that he meets, no matter their status or the kind of person they are, he befriends them… Hence, why he’s gotten into the wrong crowd in more times than, his parents would ever like.

His need for adventure had gotten him involved in several illegal crimes that could put their family to shame if they weren’t quick enough to bury the scandal. He’s known as the black sheep of his family, wanting nothing more than, to live a life of freedom and wealth. He’s pretty much seen by the world as a leech of his family, the no-good son who wouldn’t amount to anything in his life, just someone who’s good at parties and doing reckless things.

Nevermind the memory lane though, the present is always the ripest fruit:

Presently, Qiu is still the same as he was in high school; although, technically he has mellowed down from before. He hasn’t been involved in anything that’s gravely illegal ever since he’s been seeing his therapist and although he’s dropped out of college because he still has issues with studying (his family most likely just paid Cheongnam for him to graduate) he still has his private tutors that secretly come and go.

He’s still a carefree and wild person, although not as reckless as before. His family is trying their best to keep his condition in-check and in the dark. They’d rather that Qiu is known as the leech and no-good son instead of them finding out about the truth.

But we are nothing if not open books – my job is to ensure you get to the best pages:

Qiu comes from old money that technically, originated at Jiangsu, China. His great-grandfather was Yu Mu Jian, a tycoon who geared up their family wealth by shipment, mining, and jewelries. After generations of success, the family slowly extended to other countries. They made arranged marriages to other successful and wealthy groups that would enhance their business.

Qiu’s family was from the Philippines; he’s part of the 2nd generation of Yu’s that’s intermarried with the Cai family (immigrants from China to The Philippines) as they are also a family of old money, in the jewelry business—the Cai family excels at gold mining as they are known for their beautiful and intricately designed jewelries in gold. The raven grew up as a part of the crème de la crème, going only to the best schools, wearing the finest clothes, socializing with only those from the top (at first when he was younger), and all around being treated like a prince.

As he grew up, Qiu’s parents had less and less control over him. He was always so reckless and irresponsible. They had been advised by his school before about his behavior, to be directed at a counselor.

His parents did not like what the counselor and psychologist said to them.

Apparently, Qiu had ADHD. His parents couldn’t accept the fact that their own son had a mental illness, they didn’t even believe in mental illnesses in the first place. Hence why, even though they were advised to get Qiu therapy, they refused to do so claiming that there was nothing wrong with their son and he was not “crazy”.

After the events of him being untreated for his disorder, he grew worse, becoming even more reckless and unable to focus on not only his studies but, even his attention span became worse. His grades went down and his parents were forced to pay his school just so Qiu wouldn’t be held back. His teachers grew mad at his every mistake, not fully understanding nor being patient with him.

The isolation took a lot from Qiu and led him to his “friends” that weren’t the “right crowd.” They got him into drugs, illegal racing, smoking, buying prostitutes, and so much more that bought tears Qiu’s mother. When he got into his third high school—albeit thanks to his parents paying the school after his 2ndexpulsion, he was forced into a fraternity where he was heavily hazed and drugged.

The hazing and drugs brought him into a coma for 2 months.  After he woke, Qiu cried to his parents about wanting to change. His parents tried to help him, but couldn’t. He begged for his parents to let him leave, as he knows that his environment and own family was too toxic for him.

After a year of begging, and getting back into drugs his parents finally agreed that he should stay with his uncle Minho at Korea. His uncle is part of the Moon-Yu clan, the family that specializes in both jewelry and shipments. Qiu had always been close to his uncle, he loved the vacations he spent in Korea and was happy that he could finally get the help he needed as even his uncle kept the secret of also getting therapy for his Bipolar disorder.

He studied his last year at high school in Cheongnam High.

For Qiu, he had fit right in with his group of friends in the clique. It was like he never left home at all. Although, he had promised his parents of change, there was just something about A that intrigued and attracted him to her like a magnet. He liked how she understood him in their own crazy ways, the people he partied with weren’t tamer than, the ones he was with in the Philippines, on the contrary. Qiu became like the unofficial co-leader of their group, much to C’s dislike.

He had an on-going rivalry with C; ending up with him not getting better at all till he had graduated from Cheongnam. He was never one to back down from a challenge, always trying to outshine and out-wild C with his crazy antics, and as soon as he does win, hopeful eyes beaming with pride would look to A for approval.

He was the one whom introduced a few new drug connections and items to the team, taking them out to the wildest parties that went from country to country as it was easy for the trust fund kid to bring a private jet to take his friends with him. When it comes to bad ideas, reckless actions, and just downright stupidity that are all around dangerous A and Qiu go hand-in-hand in those ideas, sometimes Qiu even becomes the brain in all of them in those kind of antics.

[violetsystems]

#personal

It’s been a pretty busy couple of weeks in terms of work.  It is a little surreal to identify as working for yourself.  I ran into one of the people who hangs out on this block.  I’ve known them for years in passing.  There’s a gang of people who hang out in the alley underneath the subway tracks.  They asked what I had been doing.  I replied I work for myself now.  My office is officially my kitchen.  It look out at those very tracks. They film Chicago Fire and PD on my block often.  I don’t watch either of those shows but it can have a Hollywood backlot kind of feel.  Most of the street level communication I have resembles grittier parts of New York.  There’s no one dominant kind of person on the block.  People tend to keep to themselves but know vaguely what the other’s deal is.  There’s a sort of hidden network of communication maybe.  A block culture.  That can get a little hard to read the further you get away from your safe zone.  I’ve travelled all over the world at this point by myself.  I started travelling to Asia back in 2011 with the intention of networking.  Later in 2014, I revisited making music particularly with a Chicago form of street dance called footwork.  Footwork at the time was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.  But the root of it was buried under layers of white dominated dance music.  In 2015, I decided to say fuck it and try to organize a music tour for myself.  I tried with people in my own city but their personal agendas always eclipsed my basic plans.  There was a bass driven night in Chicago at the time called Coldtech.  It had a sister night in Melbourne.  I tried to organize a tour that passed through on my way from New Zealand.  I went to New Zealand to visit a friend.  I ended up going out on a few dates then ghosted the final night.  Somewhere in there I got detained in customs and accused of being a gang member.  I eventually ended up in Japan where I met Jake Innes.  Jake was an anime nerd and video game freak.  He knew the Coldtech people but was more like me.   Out on his own trying to use his passion to promote something he loved.  Culture.  Just like punk back in the day, you could count on that culture in a pinch to survive.  We travelled all over Japan for a few days.  Jake was my translator.  I was guided to amazing food.  Amazing spots to shop.  We talked about what moved us.  I had come up with this dumb ass phrase at the time.  Yolonet.  A sort of blockchain word of mouth.  Jake had a lot of trust with people.  He was friends with Lil B after all.  It didn’t really matter who he was friends with to me.  I am a very genuine and transparent person.  You have to be when you’ve wasted so much time on liabilities.  You never expect those to turn out to be past friends.  After reading all this depressing news about the entropy in the job search, I felt down.  You don’t expect your professional contacts to just disappear without a trace.  I barely have the connections on professional social networking to prove it.  Those people never reach out.  Never ask how my employment is going.  Don’t even realize I work for myself.  And yet the block knows.  Jake knows too.  In fact, the last two releases I put out just for fun were purchased by him.  The only way I am connecting to people I can depend on is through culture.  Something I can trust beyond politics, sooth saying, and employment fraud.  

There’s people outside of that Yolonet who have gone dark.  Entire segments of ex-friends who memorialize people who have long died while pretending I just vanished from the face of the earth.  It’s been surreal to watch.  Much more disorienting to live.  And yet, I am still here and surviving.  The people in my dash are much realer and emotionally satisfying to me than the people who forgot about me.  And the mystery of why is a little harder to detangle.  I was reading a book about Chinese director Jia Zhangke.  He was talking about how as a kid the only way to escape the place you grew up was to join the army or go overseas to school.  It’s the same if not worse here.  America talks a great game about freedom but it’s at the expense of the coffers of the military industrial complex of world war two.  Thank the baby boomers for that.  It benefits mostly the rich and generationally wealthy first.  Wealth connects and is rewarded by those connections in America with more wealth.  People who have Military family ties seem to always fall victim to the state’s own hidden expectations of connection, opportunity and ability.  Hunted by recruiters since there’s little actual income to go around.  The rich are hording it without paying taxes.  So the military often bullies people into the reserves when there’s no valid occupational work or space on corporate payrolls.  Fight their wars as a gateway into a career in cybersecurity I’m already overqualified for. My current state of wealth is due to a benefit known as a pension.  This is to say I actually worked for it.  And this is also to say I’m not exactly retired by choice.  But I worked with a lot of people I knew for over twenty years.  I literally got people jobs at that place.  My ex girlfriend for one.  That ended horribly.  The other people I helped out to try to connect ghosted me out of guilt presumably.  And so the only people I seem to be able to rely on are in the culture I have built or connected to myself.  This blog has been one of those lifelines in ways I am not at liberty to divulge at times.  There’s people I have better friendships through a click of a button than I’ve had ever in my life.  I used to try to explain these things to people.  And generally my exile from anyone in real life giving a fuck is a harsh lesson in the reality.  People don’t actually listen.  They don’t actually communicate in anything other than comparison and contrast and monetary valuation.  I was reading how a person just literally asked to buy the rights to one of Elon Musk’s tweets for 7777$.  How a sentence from a billionaire is worth more than my pain in this entire process or the lives of the worker’s in his factories even.  We just got six hundred dollars.  That should be enough for us.  But I wasn’t valuable enough to insure past October even though I was paying the premiums.  It would seem the real world’s network isn’t very reliable or at least focused on something so out of sync it seems comically evil.  What can I rely on?  It seems a lot.  I never have felt alone in the last year or so.  Ever since Valentine’s day really.  Sometimes you can show you care by not even saying a word.  Words are worthless when you can buy them for seven grand I guess.  It’s the action of caring and attention that counts.  If you built a foundation on people who didn’t care, your path ahead will be volatile at best.  If you limit someone based on your fear of them outshining you, the results will be constantly mediocre.  And many times, later in life you find you’ve outgrown these limitations people envision you in.  And through that worthless feeling you seek out something true.  You take the once in a lifetime risk to set up your own network.  To leave the baggage and the past behind and see it for what it really is.  Your self worth is no longer shackled by people’s envy, jealousy and active sabotage.  You are a defective crash test dummy that served it’s purpose for capitalism.  Or you can leave the car wreck behind and opt out of the American social experiment entirely.  It’s a free country after all.

The baby boomers did have an answer to all of this.  Shut up and take their money because they know what’s best.  My dad would always say later on in life I’d understand Republicans.  Maybe I’d even want to become one.  Like many Republicans from the suburbs, he’d never be caught dead in the rougher areas of the city much less outside of the country.  I’ve never seen any politicians talking to people on the streets in passing.  I’ve never seen anyone answering, speaking for, or actively working on this privilege that acts like a monkey on my back.  I’m an only child.  When my parents die, my bloodline is some bullshit.  I’ll most certainly have to deal with some estate affairs on either side.  But when I die, who knows where my legacy will go.  Will I get married?  Will I have children?  Will I be able to fulfill my role in the helping America achieve it’s desired GDP?  I can’t even count on my government during a Pandemic let alone to hold people accountable for crimes.  Will I die alone, invisible, broke but talked about on the Internet.  Will people watch my life until the very end to see the tragedy unmatched to their own?  Are people just drunk on making me some sort of talking point?  The gossip will never end.  The sad truth of the last five to ten years for me is simple.  There is an opposite to block chain.  A network of people who only cover for themselves and their lies.  The great lie as they spoke of in Germany did something horribly foul.  A lie when it gets out of control.  A lie when it eclipses the truth.  When every word out of your mouth is gaslighted to protect an entire ecosystem that feeds itself and protects the criminal.  When your very presence needs to be edited and erased to continue the engine running.  A great lie can tear a hole in the very fabric of reality and the truth of a narrative.  And it can suck somebody so far out into space that they have to terraform a whole new network of support.  These days the writing is on the wall.  We trust everything and doubt further.  I have only had the luxury of looking to myself for answers.  I have other inspiration.  The best inspiration if you ask me.  But I keep that to myself for fear of breaches in trust.  But it’s no lie what I believe in.  A freedom that allows love to bloom.  A freedom that values people for what they do in deeds not speculation.  A freedom that is accountable in broad daylight and answers for what it represents.  Opportunities that exist outside of war economies and mark to market accounting.  Making art that connects people without controlling the dialog.  Being part of a culture and democratically so without disrespecting the read receipts.  I’ve been real for longer than most people have been breathing.  Not long enough to claw my way out of the designs these dinosaurs outspend me on.  But the one thing I know going forward is that you cannot get anymore hardcore of a foundation other than being true to yourself.  And I’m proud to surround myself with people who are true to me.  Wherever the fuck you may be.  You all live deeply inside my heart.  And that’s something there’s no price on to betray.  So let’s stop speculating and let’s live in the moment.  I built this Yolonet for us.  And instead of hello world.  Let the first words be simple.  I love you.  World peace forever.  Drink some water.  It’s your human right.  <3 Tim

[hookfrance6-blog]

A Mother, a Daughter, and Grieving through Anger

Photo courtesy of Maya Beano

By Danielle Pergament

Here at goop, we prize intimacy and honesty. We talk about issues that are important, affecting, and often highly personal. It is with that in mind that we will occasionally feature essays and letters from writers telling their own stories. It is our hope that these first-person pieces resonate with you, move you, and even make you think in a new way.

Dear Mom,

It’s hard to know where to begin, so let’s start with this.

Remember the time you told me that I would never win a beauty contest compared to K? Or, for that matter, to my other two sisters either? Do you remember when you said it? It was my wedding day. Funny thing is, we weren’t even having a fight. It was just delivered as fact. I’d like to tell you that this was the most hurtful thing you ever said to me. But I’m not sure that it was. There are just so many to choose from.

I remember when I was little, reading all these books and seeing all these movies that had the same underlying message: Mothers are sacred! The love of a mother reigns supreme above all other loves! It is from their very body that we are born. They sacrifice for us, they do anything for us, their life’s mission is to keep us safe and warm. I would see that stuff, even as a kid, and somewhere inside I’d think: Huh. It would take years for me to figure out why those mothers-are-hallowed stories never sat right.

I was the youngest of your four daughters. I think I was about five or six when I first remember people comparing us to Little Women. Looking back, I think King Lear would have prepared me a lot better. At least then I would’ve known that families could be torn apart by greed and money—or that love could be quantified by diamonds.

I don’t think you wanted to be my mother as much as you wanted to be a friend. But the kind of friend you became wasn’t the kind I could share my deepest fears or dreams with. It was the undermining kind—the mean-girl friend whose approval you crave but who also makes fun of your clothes. I was in high school when you called me “chubby” (to you, it was a fate worse than death). And I was in college when you told me I was too skinny. There was the time you said my natural part was “so ugly” that I should brush my hair to hide it. And the time you told me to flex my biceps to see whether I was as fit as my sister. You had a whole quiver of those verbal arrows, all crafted to injure and weaken but never actually kill.

And holy Christ did you want me to get married. It wasn’t like the “any man would be lucky to have you as a wife,” kind of thing. The way you put it was more “If your boyfriend doesn’t propose in six months, you need to move on.” It was like selling a car before anyone had a chance to figure out that it didn’t have tires.

I thought it was only me. But really it was all of us. As M, your son-in-law, who liked and loved you as much as anyone and was a far better child to you than any of your actual children were, said: “It’s as if she casually tossed hand grenades into every relationship in our family.” Not early on, and not all at once, but for half a century, you really perfected this skill until every last one of us was left smoldering in the ashes.

For a long time, the concept of forgiving you was foreign. It was foreign to our entire family. I had to learn it, the way a blind man would have to learn what “blue” means.

Just as I realized how very much you and I needed a real connection, that I needed to forgive years of hurt and pain and shitty comments, it was then, a year and a half ago, that you died.

To the outside world (and yes, to me, too), you were a diminutive, blonde, blue-eyed Swedish farm girl with an opera singer’s voice and a small child’s shyness. You saw art everywhere and tried to instill in all of us a love of Mozart and Verdi. You were soft-spoken, elegant, and incredibly sweet. It wasn’t an act; it was real. You loved my father, you loved us (in the way that was available to you), and you were unfailingly compassionate. Especially to abused animals and suffering children in faraway lands. It was enough to make me wish I were an abandoned racehorse.

It took me years to reconcile that someone so adorable, someone who, because of her accent, could never learn to say “three” without it sounding like “free,” could use that same charming Scandinavian lilt to tell me that I would never be as successful as one sister or as artistic as another sister or as good a gymnast, horseback rider, you name it.

I do not hate you. I have never hated you. We were symbiotic. For years, you were either the last person I spoke to before bed or the first person I called when I woke up. Right up to my thirties—and at least a few times a week after that. You always answered the phone—and to a child, that is so very important, that consistency so valuable. It was the actual conversation that usually left me shaking with rage or stained with tears or hanging up when I could take no more. But I’d always go back. And you’d always answer. Ours was a singularly painful codependence—but you were the only mother I had. And I knew that, even though you could hurt me, sometimes deliberately, you loved me.

You were beloved by so many people—and I could see why. You loved parties and champagne and dancing and laughing at men’s jokes and being a bon vivant and acting like a 1970s wealthy Westchester hostess who wore Halston (which was kind of what you were). People adored you, including and especially your children. In your own, often misguided way, you wanted to connect with me. It’s just that you ended up comparing me to my sisters (probably not such great parenting), and more often than not, I’d feel as if I had to defend my own worthiness against such a star-studded roster.

It would take decades for me to understand the extent of the damage. I was so young when I learned to compare myself to other women—to my own sisters! And when I found myself falling short (which I usually did), when I felt lost or alone or unloved, I’d break down. Your suggestion was as simple as it was impossible: “Stop being so sensitive.” Not: “What’s wrong?” Not: “Talk to me, sweetheart.” But: “Stop being so sensitive.” (Remember when you offered me a dollar every day I didn’t cry? Kids cry, so that didn’t work, though the Do Not Emote message was pretty clear.) Of course, your prescription backfired: My sensitivity, maybe it’s called hypersensitivity, is probably my defining characteristic.

I tried to do the sensible thing: I tried to repress the pain—bury it, push it down, lock it shut, and wipe my hands of every last hurtful remark, snide comment, gut-wrenching put-down, or unanswered cry from my childhood. It worked pretty well. Occasionally the anger would bubble up and I’d have to really muscle it down again like a suitcase that can’t…quite…close.

But then I had a daughter. And two years later, a son. I learned to be a mother—a highly imperfect, fiercely adoring, obsessively in love mother. I became so curious about my kids—who they are, what they like, what they dream of—that it made it all the harder to understand why you never seemed to care about that with your own children. Well, except for one, your favorite. If only you could have been dismissive of us all equally.

Then came a very dark day.

It was late afternoon, and there was a party at your house. We were all there, and someone casually asked you about your eight grandchildren. And you quietly slid the pin out of the first grenade: “Well, L’s daughter is my favorite.” There it was: Your verbal confirmation that you had a finite amount of love. Apparently, by the time you got to your youngest grandchildren, my babies, well, they could dig for scraps. That’s the part that makes me vibrate with anger: that you didn’t see, that you didn’t care to see, the beauty of my children. That was like an elephant sitting on that suitcase. Years of baggage seemed to zip pretty firmly shut after that.

Then you got sick. I couldn’t toss my baggage and run away. I was denied my escape route. Angry and resentful as I was, I faced the miserable task of sorting out your finances and your estate. Seems pretty clear that it’s a daughter’s duty, even an injured daughter. But one sister—let’s call her Goneril—the one you always said would win the beauty contest, didn’t seem to care all that much about you once you were sick. She didn’t contribute a dime to taking care of you. (I’m sorry to tell you, but she didn’t even come to your funeral. You were hardly perfect, but you didn’t deserve that.) So she peaced out. Grenade two.

In the long, difficult months before you died, your little women had dwindled to three. The bills piled up, and we sold things—your furniture, your crystal, your Halstons. We sold our things too—watches, artwork, treasures you’d given us as graduation and wedding presents. You were living in a mansion you could no longer afford to heat, I was buying your groceries every week, and we had sold valuables to pay your property tax.

Then that phone call and those six chilling words: “A lot of money is missing.”

I’ll cut to the point. You gave one daughter not just more love but more cash. Like: all of it. We asked you about it, and after days of denial, you admitted that yes, you’d given the last money you had to one of your children while the rest of us struggled to pay your bills.

Funny thing is: I’m not even mad about the money. I’m mad that you lied to me for years, and I’m even madder that you let me buy your food with my own money—money I would have liked to save for my own children. But you did. More grenades.

God it’s hard to forgive you. I shouldn’t be mad at you because you’re dead. Because it’s over. Because the last time I saw your body, it was the morning of your death—you were no more than a frail husk; everything alive had fled from you. You were so tiny, wearing that threadbare nightgown.

I know that it’s healthy for me to find forgiveness. The Dalai Lama says so. And I work at goop, the first church of the power of gratitude. And rage and grudges are probably not the shortest path to feeling grateful. But I’m still mad. I’m mad that you never wanted to know me. I’m mad that you never asked—not a single question in forty-three years—how I felt or what I thought. You never wanted to see the world from my point of view.

But the thing that I’m most angry about is that you dismissed my pain. You were Teflon—everything glanced off of you. You were so terrified to leave the tiny shell that you had built around yourself, so terrified to leave the comfort of your own house or your own frail point of view, that you never ventured out to where I lived.

I know it’s hard to forgive people who are dead. But the truth is I said it all. I spent the last decade of my life trying to explain my feelings to you. Sometimes it was more flame-thrower than olive branch. But sometimes I was pretty grown-up about it. It never worked. You got angry, you got defensive, you got hurtful, you got passive aggressive. (“Oh, well I guess I’m the worst mother who ever lived,” you’d say. Which, you know, did not make me feel understood.) I was going to you for the one thing a daughter needs from her mother and can’t really get anywhere else—unconditional understanding, acceptance, love. And I was turned away.

Remember what you said to me a few months before you died? I thought you were asleep but then, almost a whisper: “I never appreciated you.” It’s not the kind of thing you long to hear from your mom—it’s more like the last thing you want to hear. But maybe, in a weird, clumsy way, you were saying sorry.

So I forgive you. Of course, I don’t actually forgive you, but I’m saying it. Like how people say that if you smile when you’re miserable, it will make you happier. I forgive you. I love you. You gave me life. I think inside, you were no more than a terrified child yourself, the seventh of nine. You barely had access to your own parents when you needed it most. And you were so young when you fled—over an ocean, to a new country. You must have been scared to death for so much of your life. I know you were terribly insecure—those sad, quiet retreats to your room, overcome by loneliness, having no sense of self-worth. I’m so sorry. I could have been a lot more compassionate about many things.

We never made peace in life, you and I. We came pretty close to approximating it, but we were always hurt or angry or both. If there is one dream I have for us, it’s that I can give you in death what I couldn’t give you in life: understanding; forgiveness; true, unqualified love.

So: I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. It’s still not working, but I’ll keep trying.

I promise.

Source: https://goop.com/work/relationships/mother-daughter-forgiveness/

[damagemirror94-blog]

A Mother, a Daughter, and Grieving through Anger

Photo courtesy of Maya Beano

By Danielle Pergament

Here at goop, we prize intimacy and honesty. We talk about issues that are important, affecting, and often highly personal. It is with that in mind that we will occasionally feature essays and letters from writers telling their own stories. It is our hope that these first-person pieces resonate with you, move you, and even make you think in a new way.

Dear Mom,

It’s hard to know where to begin, so let’s start with this.

Remember the time you told me that I would never win a beauty contest compared to K? Or, for that matter, to my other two sisters either? Do you remember when you said it? It was my wedding day. Funny thing is, we weren’t even having a fight. It was just delivered as fact. I’d like to tell you that this was the most hurtful thing you ever said to me. But I’m not sure that it was. There are just so many to choose from.

I remember when I was little, reading all these books and seeing all these movies that had the same underlying message: Mothers are sacred! The love of a mother reigns supreme above all other loves! It is from their very body that we are born. They sacrifice for us, they do anything for us, their life’s mission is to keep us safe and warm. I would see that stuff, even as a kid, and somewhere inside I’d think: Huh. It would take years for me to figure out why those mothers-are-hallowed stories never sat right.

I was the youngest of your four daughters. I think I was about five or six when I first remember people comparing us to Little Women. Looking back, I think King Lear would have prepared me a lot better. At least then I would’ve known that families could be torn apart by greed and money—or that love could be quantified by diamonds.

I don’t think you wanted to be my mother as much as you wanted to be a friend. But the kind of friend you became wasn’t the kind I could share my deepest fears or dreams with. It was the undermining kind—the mean-girl friend whose approval you crave but who also makes fun of your clothes. I was in high school when you called me “chubby” (to you, it was a fate worse than death). And I was in college when you told me I was too skinny. There was the time you said my natural part was “so ugly” that I should brush my hair to hide it. And the time you told me to flex my biceps to see whether I was as fit as my sister. You had a whole quiver of those verbal arrows, all crafted to injure and weaken but never actually kill.

And holy Christ did you want me to get married. It wasn’t like the “any man would be lucky to have you as a wife,” kind of thing. The way you put it was more “If your boyfriend doesn’t propose in six months, you need to move on.” It was like selling a car before anyone had a chance to figure out that it didn’t have tires.

I thought it was only me. But really it was all of us. As M, your son-in-law, who liked and loved you as much as anyone and was a far better child to you than any of your actual children were, said: “It’s as if she casually tossed hand grenades into every relationship in our family.” Not early on, and not all at once, but for half a century, you really perfected this skill until every last one of us was left smoldering in the ashes.

For a long time, the concept of forgiving you was foreign. It was foreign to our entire family. I had to learn it, the way a blind man would have to learn what “blue” means.

Just as I realized how very much you and I needed a real connection, that I needed to forgive years of hurt and pain and shitty comments, it was then, a year and a half ago, that you died.

To the outside world (and yes, to me, too), you were a diminutive, blonde, blue-eyed Swedish farm girl with an opera singer’s voice and a small child’s shyness. You saw art everywhere and tried to instill in all of us a love of Mozart and Verdi. You were soft-spoken, elegant, and incredibly sweet. It wasn’t an act; it was real. You loved my father, you loved us (in the way that was available to you), and you were unfailingly compassionate. Especially to abused animals and suffering children in faraway lands. It was enough to make me wish I were an abandoned racehorse.

It took me years to reconcile that someone so adorable, someone who, because of her accent, could never learn to say “three” without it sounding like “free,” could use that same charming Scandinavian lilt to tell me that I would never be as successful as one sister or as artistic as another sister or as good a gymnast, horseback rider, you name it.

I do not hate you. I have never hated you. We were symbiotic. For years, you were either the last person I spoke to before bed or the first person I called when I woke up. Right up to my thirties—and at least a few times a week after that. You always answered the phone—and to a child, that is so very important, that consistency so valuable. It was the actual conversation that usually left me shaking with rage or stained with tears or hanging up when I could take no more. But I’d always go back. And you’d always answer. Ours was a singularly painful codependence—but you were the only mother I had. And I knew that, even though you could hurt me, sometimes deliberately, you loved me.

You were beloved by so many people—and I could see why. You loved parties and champagne and dancing and laughing at men’s jokes and being a bon vivant and acting like a 1970s wealthy Westchester hostess who wore Halston (which was kind of what you were). People adored you, including and especially your children. In your own, often misguided way, you wanted to connect with me. It’s just that you ended up comparing me to my sisters (probably not such great parenting), and more often than not, I’d feel as if I had to defend my own worthiness against such a star-studded roster.

It would take decades for me to understand the extent of the damage. I was so young when I learned to compare myself to other women—to my own sisters! And when I found myself falling short (which I usually did), when I felt lost or alone or unloved, I’d break down. Your suggestion was as simple as it was impossible: “Stop being so sensitive.” Not: “What’s wrong?” Not: “Talk to me, sweetheart.” But: “Stop being so sensitive.” (Remember when you offered me a dollar every day I didn’t cry? Kids cry, so that didn’t work, though the Do Not Emote message was pretty clear.) Of course, your prescription backfired: My sensitivity, maybe it’s called hypersensitivity, is probably my defining characteristic.

I tried to do the sensible thing: I tried to repress the pain—bury it, push it down, lock it shut, and wipe my hands of every last hurtful remark, snide comment, gut-wrenching put-down, or unanswered cry from my childhood. It worked pretty well. Occasionally the anger would bubble up and I’d have to really muscle it down again like a suitcase that can’t…quite…close.

But then I had a daughter. And two years later, a son. I learned to be a mother—a highly imperfect, fiercely adoring, obsessively in love mother. I became so curious about my kids—who they are, what they like, what they dream of—that it made it all the harder to understand why you never seemed to care about that with your own children. Well, except for one, your favorite. If only you could have been dismissive of us all equally.

Then came a very dark day.

It was late afternoon, and there was a party at your house. We were all there, and someone casually asked you about your eight grandchildren. And you quietly slid the pin out of the first grenade: “Well, L’s daughter is my favorite.” There it was: Your verbal confirmation that you had a finite amount of love. Apparently, by the time you got to your youngest grandchildren, my babies, well, they could dig for scraps. That’s the part that makes me vibrate with anger: that you didn’t see, that you didn’t care to see, the beauty of my children. That was like an elephant sitting on that suitcase. Years of baggage seemed to zip pretty firmly shut after that.

Then you got sick. I couldn’t toss my baggage and run away. I was denied my escape route. Angry and resentful as I was, I faced the miserable task of sorting out your finances and your estate. Seems pretty clear that it’s a daughter’s duty, even an injured daughter. But one sister—let’s call her Goneril—the one you always said would win the beauty contest, didn’t seem to care all that much about you once you were sick. She didn’t contribute a dime to taking care of you. (I’m sorry to tell you, but she didn’t even come to your funeral. You were hardly perfect, but you didn’t deserve that.) So she peaced out. Grenade two.

In the long, difficult months before you died, your little women had dwindled to three. The bills piled up, and we sold things—your furniture, your crystal, your Halstons. We sold our things too—watches, artwork, treasures you’d given us as graduation and wedding presents. You were living in a mansion you could no longer afford to heat, I was buying your groceries every week, and we had sold valuables to pay your property tax.

Then that phone call and those six chilling words: “A lot of money is missing.”

I’ll cut to the point. You gave one daughter not just more love but more cash. Like: all of it. We asked you about it, and after days of denial, you admitted that yes, you’d given the last money you had to one of your children while the rest of us struggled to pay your bills.

Funny thing is: I’m not even mad about the money. I’m mad that you lied to me for years, and I’m even madder that you let me buy your food with my own money—money I would have liked to save for my own children. But you did. More grenades.

God it’s hard to forgive you. I shouldn’t be mad at you because you’re dead. Because it’s over. Because the last time I saw your body, it was the morning of your death—you were no more than a frail husk; everything alive had fled from you. You were so tiny, wearing that threadbare nightgown.

I know that it’s healthy for me to find forgiveness. The Dalai Lama says so. And I work at goop, the first church of the power of gratitude. And rage and grudges are probably not the shortest path to feeling grateful. But I’m still mad. I’m mad that you never wanted to know me. I’m mad that you never asked—not a single question in forty-three years—how I felt or what I thought. You never wanted to see the world from my point of view.

But the thing that I’m most angry about is that you dismissed my pain. You were Teflon—everything glanced off of you. You were so terrified to leave the tiny shell that you had built around yourself, so terrified to leave the comfort of your own house or your own frail point of view, that you never ventured out to where I lived.

I know it’s hard to forgive people who are dead. But the truth is I said it all. I spent the last decade of my life trying to explain my feelings to you. Sometimes it was more flame-thrower than olive branch. But sometimes I was pretty grown-up about it. It never worked. You got angry, you got defensive, you got hurtful, you got passive aggressive. (“Oh, well I guess I’m the worst mother who ever lived,” you’d say. Which, you know, did not make me feel understood.) I was going to you for the one thing a daughter needs from her mother and can’t really get anywhere else—unconditional understanding, acceptance, love. And I was turned away.

Remember what you said to me a few months before you died? I thought you were asleep but then, almost a whisper: “I never appreciated you.” It’s not the kind of thing you long to hear from your mom—it’s more like the last thing you want to hear. But maybe, in a weird, clumsy way, you were saying sorry.

So I forgive you. Of course, I don’t actually forgive you, but I’m saying it. Like how people say that if you smile when you’re miserable, it will make you happier. I forgive you. I love you. You gave me life. I think inside, you were no more than a terrified child yourself, the seventh of nine. You barely had access to your own parents when you needed it most. And you were so young when you fled—over an ocean, to a new country. You must have been scared to death for so much of your life. I know you were terribly insecure—those sad, quiet retreats to your room, overcome by loneliness, having no sense of self-worth. I’m so sorry. I could have been a lot more compassionate about many things.

We never made peace in life, you and I. We came pretty close to approximating it, but we were always hurt or angry or both. If there is one dream I have for us, it’s that I can give you in death what I couldn’t give you in life: understanding; forgiveness; true, unqualified love.

So: I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you. It’s still not working, but I’ll keep trying.

I promise.

Source: https://goop.com/work/relationships/mother-daughter-forgiveness/

[writerspink]

K-12 Words

K

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1.1

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1.2

interest job because such think thirteen subject answer letter meet north length need times divide (by) times table edge soft months present energy point sound log south wide members exercise flowers set found things heart cause site brother teacher live read billion another distance written kept direction developed wall east happy million world must house turn west change well twenty felt put end does large big even here why ask went men land different home us move try kind hand picture again off dress play spell air away animal page mother study still learn should America

2.1

paragraph weather window third believe discovered simple gone paint new store form cells matter follow perhaps cannot good means around line center kind reason move forest sentence return instruments beside represent wild study back farmers sum difference product quotient remainder mother animal land region record summer general caterpillar scratch modern adjust passenger promise equal creak almost croak book dainty song high every near add food between own below country plant last school father keep tree never start city earth eyes light thought head under story saw left don’t few while along might close something seem next hard open example begin life always those both paper together got group often run

2.2

misty poor caution pest phrase life startle squirm alone centaur rise mountain above illustrator footprint temperature decorate country sweat sometimes hair smiled everything began thick compass themselves enough took although splendid crowded second act attach sly talk wonder let’s whirl someone Africa borrow beat belong blink per fasten pain begin drenched bed shell free earth tiny slippery count factors important until children side feet car mile night walk white sea grow river four carry state once book hear stop without late miss idea eat face watch far Indian real almost let girl mountains cut young soon list song being leave family it’s

3.1

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3.2

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4.1

pattern cave hope mile group travel blush killed seed bottom hide important let ticket timid pounds restart silent cranky keep real bright quite curved repeat trip without dart consonant mountains quiet apologize roar grip groan bolt food injury century exhausted cabin atmosphere floor it’s scold transportation delighted giant hill something build fog method rough left everyone obey deserve speak therefore soon french switch until pushed state knob hobby between surround collect fire I’ll arrive road happened certain top order astronomy inches club catch farm nibble color yourself received connect told gaze check wear English half ten fly gave box finally wait correct oh quickly person became shown minutes strong verb stars front feel fact street decided contain course surface produce building ocean class note nothing rest carefully scientists inside wheels stay green known island week less machine base ago stood

4.2

round award crowd slowly yet products, goods, services vowel himself strange whose draw team hold feel flood sent save stood yard notice warn enemy deep please flap coast music wrote safe blast behind island lizard figure famous garden correct whisper listen joined clear share net thus calf maybe cried piece fold seen england decided bank fell pair control clean telescope trouble glass float morning horse produce course hunting rest step statement contain shouted filled zigzag accident cents instrument fly single express visit desert seeds chew dome experiment break gravity against branch size low plane system ran boat game force brought understand warm common bring explain dry though language shape thousands yes equation government heat full hot check object am rule among noun power cannot able six dark ball material special heavy fine circle include built

5.1

mark wealthy row feeling across attention ran map students inside design art mouth ring skill hot during shelter full till log (book) blossom discard bring quickly scientists party town covered wise early cram grain harm goal pause inform heal clue fame freeze badge pimple dim missionary diet dumb rod march agree stick government bulb mall ban greed skiing poison stove image grew fact material dangerous flow gap ago stack explain didn’t strong voice true drawing surface gift corner cloud since king dawn pulled dozen friends greedy burning upon knew insect decimal nervous pay foot weak smooth aware steady serve lost nonetheless beach front atlas questions less cost slight motor banner wire area carefully separate equation local minutes fast table plan fine waves fair sing dive suppose boat thousands shape among toward gas factory birds wait understand sure ship report captain human game history reflect special brave bounce though else can’t matter square syllables perhaps bill felt suddenly test direction center farmers ready anything divided general energy subject Europe moon region return believe dance members picked simple cells paint mind love cause rain exercise eggs train blue wish drop developed window difference distance heart site sum summer wall forest probably

5.2

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6.1

afraid absorb british seat fear stretched furniture sight oxygen coward rope clever yellow albeit confess passage france fan cattle spot explore rather active death effect mine create wash printed process origin rose swift woe planets doze gasp chief perform triumph value substances tone score predict property movement harsh tube settled defend reverse ancient blood sharp border fierce plunge consider terms vision intend total schedule attract average intelligent corn dead southern glide supply convince send continent brief mural symbol crew chance suffix habit insects entered nursery especially spread drift major fig diagram guess wit sugar predator science necessary moisture park ordeal nectar fortunate flutter gun forward globe misery molecules arctic won’t actually addition washington cling rare lie steel pastime soldiers chill accordingly capital prevent solution greek sensitive electric agreed thin provide indicate northern volunteer sell tied triangle action opposite shoulder imitate steer wander except match cross speak solve appear metal son either ice sleep village factors result jumped snow ride care floor hill pushed baby buy century outside everything tall already instead phrase soil bed copy free hope spring case laughed nation quite type themselves temperature bright lead everyone method section lake iron within dictionary bargain loyal resource struggle vary capture exclaim gloomy insist restless shallow shatter talent atmosphere brilliant endure glance precious unite certain clasp depart journey observe superb treasure wisdom

6.2

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7.1

capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

7.2

evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

8.1

apprehensive dialogue prejudice marvel eligible accommodate arrogant distinct knack deposit liberate cumulative consequence strive salvage chronological unique vow concise influence lure poverty priority legislation significant conserve verdict leisure erupt beacon stationary generate provoke efficient campaign paraphrase swarm adhere eerie mere mimic deteriorate literal preliminary solar soothe expanse ignite verge recount apparel terrain ample quest composure majority collide prominent duration pursue innovation omniscient resolute unruly optimist restrain agony convenient constant prosper elaborate genre retrieve exploit continuous dissolve dwell persecute abandon meager elude rural retaliate primitive remote blunder propel vital designate cultivate loathe consent drastic fuse maximum negotiate barren transform conspicuous possess allegiance beneficial former factor deluge vibrant intimidate idiom dense awe rigorous manipulate transport discretion hostile clarity arid parody boisterous capacity massive prosecute declare stifle remorse refuge predicament treacherous inevitable ingenious plummet adapt monotonous accumulate reinforce extract reluctant vacate hazardous inept diminish domestic linger context excel cancel distribute document fragile myth reject scuffle solitary temporary veteran assault convert dispute impressive justify misleading numerous productive shrewd strategy villain bluff cautious consist despise haven miniature monarch obstacle postpone straggle vivid aggressive associate deceive emigrate flexible glamour hazy luxurious mishap overwhelm span blemish blunt capable conclude detect fatigue festive hospitality nomad supreme

8.2

exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

9.1

stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

9.2

feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

10.1

install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

10.2

warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

[felicezhukov]

:: Dear Nicolas Jaar ::

I saw you on a poster today for field day, on hackney road.

My ex husband keeps bleaching things.

I’m collecting, pressing the reset button, after the performance I was drained and melancholic, embarrassed the live stream didn’t work.

All the routines I’ve been living are abhorrent to me in this segment of time, I can’t face working out or cooking, even cucumbers have been eschewed, all these things will be renewed in due course its just presently I’m passing through my days. I went to the hospital, I received my passport, , I got paid though it was very little compared to my expenditure. Therefore I’m also trying to find ways to collect together the capital I will need to move out of my ex husband's house and find my own footing in the world. This is what the main element to this phase encompasses, walking out into the world on my own TWO 2 feet and being stable enough not to have to ask for help from him. Necessarily the alcohol abuse has lessened as well, no more 3 / 4 bottles of aspalls a night, though I did eat an entire log of swiss roll last night and a full portion of fish and chips on a preceding evening, in essence though I’m loading up, I’m getting better.

It’s in an odd sort of void, planning the final 2 chapters in the photic project, one which is a farcical display of the film and all the collected pieces surrounding it, the other is a zen cleansing exercise, I will now go into the premise of this. It’s the most immediate thing I’m addressing...

x PHOTIC x

:: pralay <x> exodus ::

The dramatic severance of my relationship with the Moon was violent, hysterical and terrifying. There were malicious threats and anger so distorted that I was fearful for myself, moving through that week was a nightmarish time, dread and hysteria blocking every crossroads, the most potent barrier of all was the realisation I could go n o w h e r e. Having allowed myself to be totally dependent on the moon over the course of 10 years it was unfathomable how I could be self sufficient. I couldn’t leave the domicile that we shared, even though it's not much bigger than a static caravan, I faced oblivion.

Being creative, mentally I try to find routes that will lift me out of any suffering I’ve caused myself or experienced due to others. The next few months passed rapidly, a horrific drunken Christmas, wasting away only imbibing alcohol and caffeine: I reduced in size and felt afraid nearly all the time. It was the element of being so fragile that I couldn’t protect myself which led to strange guttural Christmas parties covered in sequins and a boxing day evening on the border of a panic attack, clutching a pillow and forcing myself to stay awake till dawn, so moved by the certainty I would be overrun. Fear of invasion has been prevalent in so many facets of my recent history, I have been petrified nearly constantly.

Then it was new year, pushing forward, trying to stabilise and align with janus, photic becoming part of my daily thoughts and looking for routes where I wouldn’t have to leave the studio I so adored. House sitting, what a great thought, staying for free in wealthy people's homes, the golden ticket a way to survive and still have everything.

The worry ever present that I would return to a state of disrepair which I’d been in when I last left the the moon, when the meat became raw and sodden and allowed grotesque abstract elements to defile its sense of preservation and self. I didn’t want that again, but in the back of my mind that was all I could walk into without my studio.

The house sitting was absurd, strange and immediately more difficult than I’d envisaged, the animals seemed to be somehow warped, almost avatars of themselves and after a few short days in a top flat in Leyton, smearing marmite on my face and cutting my hair off I realised it was the not an option I could live through. By now months had passed since the initial breakage had occurred, I was still in the caravan with the moon, launching through anger, contempt, love, camaraderie but always in a state of unrest and disappointment with myself for not yet being able to prove to both him and myself that I could go.

So what next?

By this time Photic was in full swing and demanding the majority of my being, after pleading with my employers for a reduced schedule and being rejected I started to understand the constrictions and paranoia induced by the thing I was bound to for 5 consecutive days of my week. Consequently relationships began to dissolve and deform, mutilating my sense of self again and invasion, absolute subjugation, whether imagined or not, overwhelmed me. A huge, sweeping anxiety strangled my life, coming home to a home that wasn’t mine to a man who I’d known for 10 years and whilst still loving me was also passing through grievous rejection, which he couldn’t help but show in his typically aggressive manner. Going to work and feeling squashed, pulled and stretched, as if being hung drawn and quartered, as much because of the nature of the work as anything else, constantly trying to feed anger through new sockets, but being electrocuted by it.

So then work had to go, I handed my notice in and the breakdown fully got into swing. One vengefully hung over day, crouched on the floor of my studio handsfree to my sister, raw, possessed, so taken over by my darkest worries, clinging still desperately to the studio, to my life as I knew it, to my art. Which at that point was the physical objects I held in my hands, the floor and four 4 walls of that space, the routine I so adhered to.

I don’t remember how or when I truly realised that I had to let it all go in order to be able to move on, but understand it was led by a series of conversations with beautiful people I treasured who helped me map out the terms and everything dissipated and a light began to shine at the end of the tunnel. There was still adversity, work became unbearable and I cut it off at the root before allowing it to take me down another path with no end in sight.

Now I’ve fallen into the ocean, escaped the walled garden and passed into the mermaid orgy, I am beginning proceedings to sell everything I can, as a performance, a kind of zen cleansing ritual, by minimising to a suitcase I hope to be unladen so that I can finally reach the end of the tunnel and walk into the light.

Over the next month I will be collecting and photographing the catalogue that is my life, which ranges from clothing of all descriptions to art materials, books, paintings, drawings, sketchbooks, furniture, I will sell my camera as well I think.

These performance will be the rituals surrounding the process, washing and packing my clothes to take to the studio, installing them in the studio which will be transformed from a black underwater cave to a white cube and made available by appointment only, for others to come inspect and buy directly from.

I will take items of clothing and then act out scenes of characters they embody, as I like to dress up it's a hard thing to loose this but these characters are all faded now and I know I will find new ones on the horizon. For some reason I feel kindred with Roger from American Dad as I write this.

I will also catalogue everything on a tumblr page created especially for the performance, there are no asking prices, this element is interesting to me. Of course I won’t sell anything for a penny - cent to you - unless I really feel it's worth that but I want people to give me the perception of the value of that item, for it to be a conversation about the terms of passing the object onto a new home, about what it will mean to the person receiving it.

I do wonder how much people will pay for my paintings.

I aim to have nothing left by the 29th May other than a suitcase, the stipulation is that I cannot retain any item of clothing especially, I want to walk into the light with an adidas tracksuit, some ellesse trainers and a white fred perry polo shirt, to be renewed, reborn.

I will stay in London now for the time being, until I can find the right passage to put on my play, but I will spend my time deep in text, reading, writing and drawing, collecting wisdom and history to better understand myself, full scenes already are scrawled in my brain, laid out in parks around london reading and taking notes, sipping ice tea and breathing deeply.

I hope it works Nicolas, I hope you get to see the Moon today.

DETAILS

Links below to the digital stages I’ll be using:

My tumblr sale page:

https://photicpralayexodus.tumblr.com/

My instagram performance:

https://www.instagram.com/felicezhukov/