#and the absence of that tweeted letter means that HIS story here is not over | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

idkthisisjustforfanfic · 5 years ago

Photo

two years too late, chapter t h r e e

You were sitting at your desk on Monday morning when the message came through. Alyssa’s name lit up your screen, the house emoji sat beside the small letters as your hand jerked forward to grab it out of habit.

Alyssa (10:21am): THERE’S A PHOTO OF US AND HARRY

Alyssa (10:21am): Can’t see our faces tho don’t worry

Alyssa (10:22am): Just the back of your head and my ear, really

Shit, shit, shit.

She’d attached the picture and sent it: your arm, your hand, your hair. Alyssa’s ear and jaw, Erica’s leather jacket and unmistakably, Harry’s shoulders and back. You looked it over again, studying the image as you pinched it to zoom in.

You couldn’t tell that was you. No way. Unless your mother or sister was looking, Jessie and Bryn might not even be able to tell. It was dark and the quality of the picture was poor but you could definitely see that you had a drink in your hand. You could also see that you were stood remarkably close to Harry.

Fuck.

You took a deep breath, hoping to steady your pulse and ignore the way your vision was blurry in the corners.

“Question!��

“Jesus!” You exclaimed, looking up quickly to see a startled Whitney with her hand on her chest--just as alarmed by your reaction as you’d been by her presence. “Sorry, hi.” You dropped your phone quickly, letting it crash down to your desk.

“Sorry, oh my god,” she let out a big breath, rebounding from the adrenaline as a laugh escaped her lips. “I was just hoping we could meet later. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“No, m’sorry--you just--proper scared me,” you said, leaning back in your chair and blinking a few times--your heart still catching up with your brain.

“Your performance review is overdue,” she said. “We were supposed to do it at the six month mark, but you know how things are,” she waved a hand to dismiss the timeline.

“Sure, yeah. After lunch?”

“Two-thirty? We can meet in my office.”

“I’ll come to you,” you nodded, offering confirmation before she turned to walk away.

You picked up your phone again quickly, new messages from Alyssa coming in faster than you could read them.

Alyssa (10:24am): OKAY just kidding there’s one of your face. Blurry though!!!!

Alyssa (10:24am): From down below. Someone must have taken it looking up to the balcony where we were?

Alyssa (10:25am): You would never know that was you

She was trying to reassure you, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest as all of the thoughts flooded through your brain like a tsunami, waves quick and forceful.

Okay, so it wasn’t like knowing Harry was the end of the world. You’d been doing that for nearly 13 years and you’d managed fine enough. The problem, as you saw it, was more along the lines that your employer and coworkers had no clue that someone your website wrote about frequently was recently spending his nights on your couch with a glass of wine in hand.

Something about that sounded weird, and you were sure that Whitney wouldn’t go for it.

You pulled up the new photo, holding the screen uncomfortably close to your face to study the grainy pixels. Of course--the one moment that he slung his arm around your shoulders was the one this person had chosen to capture.

Y/N L/N (10:26am): Where are these? Can we get the person to take them down?

Alyssa (10:26am): They came up on my instagram explore tab. Random fan accounts.

Y/N L/N (10:27am): Fuck.

Alyssa (10:27am): I don’t think you should worry. They’re so blurry you can’t even tell if you’re a man or woman.

Y/N L/N (10:28am): Great even better!

You dropped your phone into your desk drawer after telling Alyssa to keep an eye on the photos. She was right: they were blurry. You were hoping with everything in your soul that Carly was too busy to even check the internet today (unlikely, seeing as your job relied on that), or if she did, that she’d be too excited about the new gossip to even pause and consider the fact that the hair in the photo looked an awful lot like yours.

So you waited. You contemplated sneaking out to meet Alyssa for lunch, taking a look for yourself at the accounts that had uploaded the photos. You decided against it, though, when you realized that your absence might make you look even more suspicious. Flying under the radar as much as possible seemed like a good option.

You kept your head in your work: a list about the funniest memes about Christmas, a quick round up of the weekend’s best celebrity tweets. You heated up your lunch and ate at your desk, hoping to avoid Carly at all costs.

You were successful up until you slipped into the kitchen on your floor to fill up your water bottle, hoping to blend in to the late-lunch crowd. Carly stood with her back to you, but soon turned around, her festive red sweater made her hard to miss. Upon meeting eyes with her, you looked down to your watch, pretending as if you’d suddenly remembered a meeting you were late for.

You weren’t one to shy away from confrontation, but this one didn’t feel totally work appropriate.

“Haven’t seen you all day,” she said, pulling her lunch from the microwave before offering a smile. “Busy or what?”

“Swamped,” you lied, pushing your water bottle up to the cooler in defeat, the bracelets on your wrist clinking together. “Ate at my desk, been pretty productive, so s’all good.”

“Feels busy around here in general. Christmas and shit,” she shrugged. “There was breaking news this morning that Harry went out on a date this weekend. I don’t know if you saw it--pictures and everything,” she wiggled her eyebrows as if you’d bite at the bait.

You licked at your dry lips, a heat rising to your cheeks. “Really?”

She nodded, grabbing a napkin from the counter. “Can’t even tell who it is, probably some random model or something. I doubt it’s hard to find someone to sleep with when you’re Harry Styles, though, so--” she turned to head back towards her desk, calling over her shoulder. “Come find me later, we’ll grab a coffee and do edits together!”

You promised you would, thankful for the fact that she was an hour behind her target for the day and still hadn’t eaten. It gave you time to gain composure as you wove through cubes and conversations to make your way to Whitney’s corner office with sweeping city views.

A sunny and cold day on the other side of the glass windows reminded you that winter was here--the small amount of snow left reflected sunlight like a broken mirror on the ground. Whitney had a folder on her desk and waved you in when you knocked, cell phone up to her ear.

She ended the call and thanked you for making the time, telling you to shut the door behind you, affording privacy to your conversation about your numbers and pay and overall transition into The Scoop.

You told Whitney that you thought it was going well--you felt up to speed with the platform the website used, felt like you were staying on top of your category (even if it wasn’t your favorite). She complimented you on your ability to use humor in your stories and on social media platforms to enhance the mission of the website, she even said you’d been the second top writer for this quarter.

“Rarely happens with someone so new,” she smiled, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her legs. “But be real with me--are you liking it? What do you wish was different? Any big fears?”

You bit at your lip, contemplating whether or not to disclose your desire to cover more news. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful or entitled, but you also trusted Whitney to handle any feedback you threw her way. “I mean, I guess I’d be interested in doing some more long form stories. Editorials or something.”

She nodded, waiting to see if you had more to say. When you let your lips press back together in a thin line, she offered a small smile. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” she told you, her tone made it sound like she was letting you down easy. “Gabrielle does most of the editorial pieces and Carly handles a lot of the pop culture news stuff that comes up for the entertainment department.”

You nodded--you knew the hierarchy. Gabrielle had been here longer than both you and Carly combined. She was only a step or two below Whitney and she seemed to sniff out good stories like it was second nature. She almost never wrote a flop.

“Yeah, no, sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” you said, already regretting the words that you’d let slip.

“You’re not ungrateful,” Whitney said. “You’re looking for more growth. I like that. I’ll certainly keep it in mind, Y/N.”

“I do have a random question,” you said suddenly, the four walls of Whitney’s office feeling like a safe enough place to play out a scenario of what ifs.

“Yeah?”

Whitney--as hip as she was--likely wasn’t paying attention to every waking detail of Harry’s life. You doubted she saw the photos and you figured you could be vague enough in your question.

“Has anyone here ever had a conflict of interest issue?”

“Conflict of interest?” Whitney spoke the phrase like she didn’t know what it meant. You knew she did, so you gave an example.

“Yeah, like, has anyone ever used their own tweets in a story or promoted a friend’s band or--I dunno, been friends with a celebrity that we cover?”

She let out a laugh, as if all of the examples were far fetched and unlikely. “I mean,” she shrugged. “Candace from beauty one time got in trouble downstairs for doing a whole write up on a makeup brand her sister was COO of,” she clenched her jaw and grimaced. “But no one up here--you’re all smarter than that.”

Right. Okay. So there was that.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Oh, just curious,” you waved a hand in the air, letting a forced laugh out as you looked out the window. “Sounds like a shit show.”

“Yeah--I mean, she got in trouble, but they figured it out. Anything else? I’ve got all of your stuff to proof before I head out early for yoga.”

“Nope, all good on this end.” You stood and gathered your water bottle and notebook.

Whitney reopened her laptop and checked her phone. “Thanks for meeting with me, Y/N. We love you here and you’ve been a rockstar.”

You offered her a smile, appreciative of the praise and encouragement. Once she let her eyes fall back to her computer, you hurried over to your desk, reaching for your phone and praying that the photo hadn’t traveled any father.

You composed a quick message to Harry.

Y/N (3:17pm): Coming to yours when I’m out of work. We need to talk.

The one problem about going to Harry’s after work was that he wasn’t home. So instead of storming into his apartment like you’d imagined, you had to wait patiently in a strange hallway in a big office building in Midtown.

You checked your watch obsessively. You’d only been there for seven minutes so far, but it still felt like too long. You were rehearsing the words in your head, tiny fragments of an argument playing out before you even had the chance to tell him about the photos or the anxiety that came with them.

You had no clue where you were. He’d sent another pin of his location and told you to text him when you arrived. A man at the front desk swiped a card for you to enter and instructed you to head to the 49th floor. So here, in another indistinguishable hallway (this time without a neon green wall), you waited.

“Hi, hey,” his voice sounded from a doorway behind you, your body instinctively moving in the direction of his voice before you even locked eyes. “Everything okay, what’s wrong?”

His arms tried to envelope you, but before they could, you put a hand up to his chest. “We have to talk.”

“Okay,” he drew the syllables out, his head dipping to the side as he looked past your shoulder. “Come with me,” he took your hand and pulled you back towards where he came. Through a doorway, past a few people. A fitting, you realized. He was at some sort of wardrobe fitting.

People stirred at tables beside you, yellow measuring tapes draped around their necks and white chalk stained their fingertips. He offered a smile to one woman in particular, one who seemed to be more interested in your presence than the others. He pulled you towards the other side of the room, your palm sweaty from the touch of his skin and the swirling desire in your head--the kind you tried (but failed) to ignore.

Eventually you were in a back stairwell--one that was similar to the hiding spot you’d found last week at work. The door shut behind you, and Harry leaned his head out to ensure that no one was around to eavesdrop, he turned to offer you his full attention. “Alright, go.”

“Did you see the pictures of us?”

“Pictures?”

“Pictures.”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for your phone in your pocket, pulling up Alyssa’s message and opening the two attachments she’d sent. “These.” You flipped it around to let his eyes scan over them.

He hummed and took the phone in his hand, the other reaching to rub the back of his neck. “I take it you’re not happy about it.”

His eyes raised to meet yours, your voice faltering as you spoke. “I--no, I just--I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to work where I work and be photographed with you.”

“Because of your friend?”

Carly--he meant Carly.

“No, not because of Carly. Because of me. It’s a conflict of interest, Harry. I can’t be your friend and potentially have to write a list about the ten funniest things you’ve ever said in interviews!”

He cracked a smile at this, but it faded altogether when you squinted up at him.

“Alright,” he cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s blurry,” he brought your phone back to his face and inspected it more. “You can barely tell that’s you. If I didn’t know what you look like, I wouldn’t even guess.”

You swallowed, wondering if he ever studied your features like you did his. The dip in his top lip, the way his eyes crinkled at the sides when he laughed.

“What’s the big deal, anyway? We’ve been friends forever, a lot of people do know that, you know.”

You couldn’t help but pull a face at his words. Friends forever? You corrected him. “Friends who haven’t had regular contact for the last, like, six years. Haven’t spoken at all in the last two.”

He let a breath out, one that told you he was bothered or angry or something. “Because I thought that’s what you wanted!”

You took a step back from him, suddenly overwhelmed as a thousand questions burrowed their way into your mind. “Whatever--I don’t even want to,” you cut yourself off. You weren’t ready to dig up the details of December 29th or launch into a conversation regarding the untethering of your friend group. “I just--I can’t fuck this job up, it’s a really good job.”

“You’re not going to fuck it up, Smalls!” His words were harsh now despite the use of your nickname, his eyes wider than before as he tried to reassure you. “It’s just a photo. No one will know that’s you. We’ll just be careful.”

It didn’t feel that easy.

“I mean, it might get you more reads, y’know.” A laugh tumbled out of his mouth with ease, a complete lack of awareness of the weight his words held. You pulled your eyes up to look at him, a heat in your chest present that he hadn’t ever ignited before. At least, not in the angry sense.

“Are you implying that being friends with you will further my career and that I should be thankful for that?”

“No, I didn’t--I just mean that people love to read your stuff anyway. S’hilarious. If people knew that we were friends, that would make people really interested in you--more than they already are,” he tried to soften his words, flatten out the intention as if he hadn’t meant what he said.

You shook your head, your gaze on the cement floor as you wondered why you even answered his text four days prior. Now, as the sun tried to peek through the dirty sliver of a window in the stairwell, answering felt like it was a bad choice.

“I--okay, Harry--I’ll see you around,” you turned on one foot, hand on the doorknob before he could get in front of you.

Monday, December 11th

Harry S (11:34pm): I’m sorry about today. I wasn’t trying to be a dick.

Harry S (11:46pm): Sleep well

Tuesday, December 12th

Harry S (10:19am): What are you up to after work?

Friday, December 15th

Harry S (1:15pm): Alright. You’re mad. I get it. I was a dick.

Harry S (1:15pm): Can we please talk?

You always wished you were strong willed. You could be, in a lot of ways. Like the time you and Jessie took a painting class and you were complete shit. You spent hours researching the right brushes for the right types of paint and eventually, you figured it out. The summer heat back home turned sticky as you’d paint in your bedroom at night, a fan blowing sweet relief until you’d climb into cool sheets.

Or even the time you’d decided to stand up to Holly McAdams in Year 3 when she told everyone that you had cooties. The playground went silent when you called her a liar and told her to put her energy towards good instead of evil.

But when it came to Harry--you’d never been so lucky. He always had a charm about him that seemed to seep into your brain and turn it all to mush, tiny roots that wrapped around your neurons and seemed to rewire you entirely. Which is why, on Friday afternoon, you finally broke and called him on your commute home.

“Hi,” you said into the phone, holding onto the handrail in your subway car as it rounded a corner. The reception was shitty underground, but you committed yourself to the phone call and would recognize a dropped signal as a sign from the universe that it wasn’t meant to be.

“Hi,” he said.

You waited, unsure if he’d launch into an apology or let you take the first step. Silence.

“Sorry I’ve been ignoring you. I was busy at work and I fucked up a list and Whitney has been out sick--” you realized you were doing it. You were apologizing when you hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been the one to fuck up and now you were apologizing? You back tracked. “And yeah, I mean, you were a dick, so.”

He laughed, the sound immediately easing some of the tension between you. “I get that. I’m sorry--I should have known that you’re not,” he paused. A woman beside you sneezed into her elbow, you inched away from her to avoid contamination, sandwiched between strangers. “You’re not impressed by the fame,” he spoke dramatically, your lips involuntarily twitching towards the sky--or, in your current situation, the ground above.

“I’m sure not. Never have been, never will be.”

“Are you out of work now?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

You let out a sigh, you’d been dreaming about it all day. “Nothing--I’m going to sit on my couch and eat a bowl of cereal and pray that I don’t catch whatever is going around the office. I already kind of have a sore throat and I’m not trying to be sick for Christmas.”

“Well,” he laughed. “I wish you the best with that, then.”

A tangle of disappointment in your gut when he didn’t ask you to hang out.

“Thanks. I’ll--uh--talk to you later?”

“Yeah, Smalls, talk to you later.”

You hung up, sliding your phone back into your pocket and shrinking into your coat for the remainder of the ride. When you climbed the twenty three steps to ground level at your stop, the sun had already sunk below the skyline, traces of light sneaking between the buildings on your block.

Alyssa had worked from home for the day, turning the living room into an office as she sat sprawled out on the couch. She’d also been coming down with something--her nose red and dry from all of her tissue use.

“Hi,” she greeted, pulling out her headphones and looking up at you when you came through the door, the room once again lit with the glow of Christmas lights. “How was work?”

“Fine, long, T-G-I-F,” you laughed. “How do you feel?”

“Somewhat better. Still crappy, though. How’s your throat?”

You dropped your purse to the floor and hung up your coat. “Worse than this morning. I talked to Harry though.”

She pulled her earbuds out and grinned up at you. “Was he so apologetic? I feel like he’d feel so guilty knowing he upset you--”

You shot her one of those looks: the kind that told her she was getting too wrapped up in his charm and fame and good looks.

She cleared her throat. “But he was a dick so he should feel guilty.”

You kicked your shoes off, the leather of your boots falling against the wood floor before you settled into the couch. “He was apologetic--but it was quick. Who knows when I’ll see him next, maybe when we’re home.”

Alyssa bit her tongue--you could see that she had something to say but you didn’t press it, unsure if you had the emotional energy for a conversation about why being friends with Harry again wasn’t the smartest idea.

She looked back to her screen, finishing up a few emails as you sunk into the couch, your eyes glued to your phone as you read through comments on the picture of you and Harry.

I bet she’s just a friend--they look totally platonic.

HE’S TOTALLY DATING SOMEONE!

Skjdhfkjdshfkjdhk!!!!

The picture is way too fucking grainy how are we supposed to sleuth this one out?!

Alyssa sighed and closed her laptop. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Ugh,” you let out a groan, exiting out of instagram quickly to avoid showing her the things people were saying. If you had to guess, you’d say that Alyssa had a similar nightly ritual over the past few days. Wash her face, brush her teeth, climb into bed and read what strangers were saying about you online.

The only good thing, really, was that people didn’t know it was you.

“I’m not in the mood to cook,” you said.

As soon as the words left your mouth, your phone buzzed on the coffee table, the same obnoxious picture of Harry in an apron lighting up the screen as you both brought yours eyes down to the buzzing technology, then back up to each other.

“Answer it,” she said excitedly, her lips curling towards the ceiling.

You shot her a look as you reached for it. “Not on the first ring--can’t seem too eager.”

“As if you’re not eager,” she teased, returned the eye roll pleasantry, pulling a laugh from you as you answered the call.

“Hi,” you said quickly, pressing the speaker phone button and holding it in the air between the two of you on the couch.

“Hey--I’m following protocol and giving you a warning that I’ll be over in like--eh--four minutes.”

“What?” You asked. “Why?”

Alyssa looked around the room nervously, taking an inventory of the items that were hers. She sprung into action quickly, trying to declutter her home-office--notebooks, sharpies, her glasses and tissues were spread out around the living room space.

“I’ve got food. Figured you wouldn’t want to cook if you weren’t feeling well.”

Alyssa stopped dead in her tracks, turning to you with her hands over her heart and lips in a lovestruck frown, completely enchanted by his words. You lifted your middle finger in her direction before turning towards the back of the sofa. Alyssa headed into her bedroom.

“You don’t have to do that, I mean--thank you, obviously, but, I totally get it if you’re busy.”

“M’not,” he said simply. “Stuff is dying down now anyway since we’re leaving soon.” You noticed his pronoun choice, casually dropped into the sentence as he kept talking. “I’ll wait until the coast is clear, alright? Just buzz me in when I text you.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Alright.”

Alyssa popped back into the room when she heard you hang up, her brows raised suggestively.

“What?” You asked, your tone slightly defensive as she pulled her head through the neck of her sweatshirt.

“Just, interesting, is all. Awfully sweet of him.”

You stood from the couch, watching as she bent over once more to gather more of her belongings from the area rug below. “Oh come off it,” you said.

She pulled a face, confused by your slang as she reached for a pen that had wandered beneath the coffee table.

“S’not a big deal,” you edited your words so she’d understand. “We’re friends.”

She hummed in disagreement, you trailed behind her towards her bedroom, socked feet gliding along the hard wood. Alyssa’s room was dark, the beige walls covered in posters of bands and movies. Her bed was unmade and the floor was littered in clothing of days past.

You leaned against the doorframe. “How could you think we’re anything more than that after hearing the full story of what happened that night?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, giving you a dismissive look. “S’been a while, things change. You don’t just bring food to your sick friend.”

“Sure you do,” you narrowed your eyes at her. “That’s exactly what friends do, Lyss.”

She picked up a shirt from the floor and folded it into quarters. “Just seems like there’s always been chemistry. One shitty night--as embarrassing as it was--doesn’t mean there’s not chemistry.”

You thought on her words, careful to not let them settle too deep in your heart. They floated in the air in front of you, vanishing altogether when an electric buzz leaked through the intercom by the door.

You ran over--quick to make sure he could sneak in undetected--and held a thumb to the button to grant him entrance.

Seventy-three seconds until there was a knock on the door, a pizza in his hand, and a bottle of wine pulled from the shelf in the kitchen. Alyssa--who was never one to turn down some Pinot Noir--had chosen the nicest bottle you had. A gift from her mother when she got a promotion.

Eventually, the three of you were sat around the coffee table, throw pillows serving as seats as you reached for second slices. Music drifted from the small speaker on the bookshelf, the scene similar to that of last weekend, except this time Alyssa was here. It was funny how things with Harry could feel exactly the same as they’d once been, yet entirely different in the same breath.

“Did she ever tell you about the time that we stayed up all night at Jessie’s house when we were fourteen because of some stupid internet challenge?”

Alyssa pulled a smile, her eyes darting over to me quickly. “Of course she didn’t.”

“S’cause it was stupid. You’re the one who barely made it. Everyone else was fine but when five AM came you were seriously dragging.”

He contorted his face into one of mock-offense. “Excuse me for having good sleep hygiene and a healthy need for some shut-eye.”

“You guys were allowed to have co-ed sleepovers at fourteen?” Alyssa asked, holding a hand up in student fashion. She folded her pizza in half, a boat of cheese and grease and pepperoni.

You let out a laugh, knowing that Harry’d want to explain the mastermind plan that he and Adam had come up with nearly ten years ago.

“So we did this thing, where the girls would tell their mums that they were at someone’s house. So they’d say they were at Bryn’s, but Bryn would say she was at Y/N’s,” he smiled in your direction--the adrenaline of lying to your parents came back as a small wave, less exciting than in times past but still enough to keep a grin plastered to your face.

“And the guys would do the same. We always said we were at Adam’s though--and I dunno what Adam would say cause his parents never asked any questions. So then we’d go to Jessie’s because her parents were always away for work, and--yeah, madness would ensue.”

“S’where we first drank, pretty sure that’s where Adam finally called Sophie Kneeland and asked her out over the phone.”

“S’also where Smalls blacked out the first time when we were fifteen or sixteen,” he let out a laugh and turned to Alyssa.

Her eyes went wide as she folded her legs beneath her. Your stomach dropped though, seeing as now didn’t feel like a good time to recount all the times you’d done stupid things when you were drunk. You could probably spend hours on that topic alone.

“Okay--alright, anyway,” you said, clearing your throat quickly. A car horn beeped outside, momentarily shattering the safety of the cozy room.

“Hey, also,” Harry wiped at his mouth with a napkin and pointed a finger at your roommate. “Did you appreciate my warning--a whole five minutes!”

“Four,” you said, his eyes rolling in response to your correction.

“Better than zero,” Alyssa nodded, taking a sip of wine. “Maybe we can work you all the way up to asking before you show up,” she teased.

Harry frowned at this. A dimple appeared in his cheek and he looked over to you quickly. “I brought food--” his gaze drifted back to Alyssa. “And enough for you, if you forgot.”

“You should have seen her cleaning up all her shit in here,” you laughed. “Notebooks every where, like a bomb went off.”

“I was working,” she defended. “What did you do today, Harry?”

“Hmm,” he thought aloud. “Woke up at eight--went to the gym. Showered and finalized the set list for the next leg of tour. Had a meeting with my manager and PR team about what’s coming up after the holidays. Lunch, then I had to go back to a fitting for more wardrobe stuff. Talked with Erica about the flight home, side note,” he looked to you. “Then I got your call and decided to come here.”

You were both quiet for a second--Alyssa had been challenging him, her assumption that he’d had a quiet day that couldn’t have nearly been as busy as hers. He took a deep breath and took a swig of wine.

You knew that he was busy--you’d always assumed that being famous came with plenty of downfalls and responsibilities, but hearing them all listed out in succession without a breath in between made induced a wave of guilt to pass through your veins.

Of course it was hard for him to keep in touch, if even his slower days looked like that.

“But about the flight,” he pointed a finger at you and then set his wine glass down. “Two tickets on the red eye for the 20th. I’d say we could charter something but first class on the big planes is always really nice. They give you a free eye patch.”

“Eye patch?” Alyssa asked, her tone drifting up in confusion.

“The ones you sleep with.”

“Eye mask,” you nodded.

“Oh whatever, you knew what I meant,” Harry squinted his eyes and reached for the bottle for a refill.

“What do you mean a big plane, though? How big are we talking?”

“The double deckers--they have little cubbies in first class. Little doors and everything--super private, which is nice.”

“You fly on public planes?” Another question from Alyssa--your personal peanut gallery--as you watched Harry take the stopper out of the bottle before pouring more into his glass.

“Yeah--s’better for the environment.”

Alyssa’s eyes went wide and she got that same look when he’d said he was bringing food--her brain and heart melting inside her, almost spilling out onto the oriental rug.

“Alyssa,” you said her name quickly as you stood from your orange and yellow throw pillow seat. “Want to help me with something in the kitchen?”

“What? What do you need help with?”

“Uh,” you looked around the room, trying to think on your feet. “The leftovers--the pizza.”

Harry, sat on the floor between the two of you, looked up. “I can help.”

“No.” You said quickly. “You stay. Pick a new playlist,” you instructed, hoping that a responsibility would keep him occupied. You gave Alyssa a prompting look, causing her to reluctantly stand and follow you around the corner to the kitchen.

“Can you not with the faces?” You asked, turning around once you were shielded by the wall between the two rooms. “Any time he says something relatively endearing you look like you’re about to combust or orgasm or something.”

“If I was about to orgasm, you’d know it,” she smirked, her voice low and sultry as you rolled your eyes. You’d grabbed the pizza on your way, so you reached into a drawer for aluminum foil and then tossed the box into the garbage.

“You get my point.”

“I do--but come on, Y/N! He’s literally acting like your boyfriend! Buying you a plane ticket even though you already have one? Bringing you dinner because you mentioned in passing that you weren’t feeling well? And now he’s climate conscious, too?!”

You passed her the foil-wrapped pizza and she put it into the fridge. A shrug of your shoulders, as if to dilute the air around you.

“He’s alright,” you said, the words an act of self-defense, an antidote for the love potion Alyssa was verbally concocting.

She rolled her eyes when she turned around to face you. “Relax, will you? It’s alright to be into him.”

“No it’s not, Alyssa,” you said, your voice more firm now. “You don’t know him, okay? You don’t know what happened back then and the way our friendship was and--just, leave it alone, alright?”

She paused, her eyes scanning your face, both of you staring at each other in silence. The kitchen clock ticked on the wall, seconds scattered through the room.

Harry’s voice floated above the music from the other room, “some classic Christmas tunes, yeah?”

So you left it at that. There was no need to defend yourself more than you already had, the reasons stacking high as to why shouldn’t go down this road. Harry was on two feet in the living room, swaying back and forth to the music as Alyssa followed you back to the couch.

You poured yourself another glass of wine, watching as he playfully took Alyssa’s hand, spinning her into his side as they waltzed in circles around the coffee table.

You pulled your carryon closer to your body, wishing you could absorb it into your being as you forced your way past people already in line. Sorry, excuse me, sorry, thanks, gotta get by.

The airport was busier than you expected. Your mum had told you on the phone that the afternoon would be the worst time of day, a wave of relief washing over you when you confirmed that Harry had booked the red eye. That relief vanished altogether when you stepped foot into the bustling airport, children running, intercoms beeping.

Your passport was in your hand, the ticket slipped between pages filled with colorful stamps. An elbow into your stomach, you hiked the bag up your shoulder more.

“I’m so sorry, hi, name is Y/N L/N, I was supposed to board already, uh--my friend is already seated I think.”

The woman at the desk looked at you with an unimpressed stare, her fingers clicking on the keyboard as she held a hand out. You assumed she wanted your ticket, so you thumbed it out of the booklet and slapped it down.

Her eyes scanned the paper before the computer did, when it beeped, the expression on her face changed. “Oh, Miss L/N,” she smiled up at you. “No worries, we can take you to your seat right now.”

“Oh, I can, I’ll just take myself,” you said awkwardly, looking around to see who else she was referring to. Other gate workers were nearby, clad in the traditional British Airways uniforms as the airport continued to buzz with Christmas cheer. Apparently flying first class had its perks.

And you would have already been seated if you’d just agreed to travel to the airport with Harry, but you had plenty of things to tie up at work before heading out for a whopping 12 days. It wasn’t typical to take so much time off in a role like yours, but Whitney was feeling generous and you’d agreed to work a few days remotely.

So instead of sitting in the back of the same black Chevy Suburban with Roger narrating the drive, you’d crammed your suitcase into the trunk of an Uber and hoped that the traffic out to Long Island wasn’t impossible.

It was.

A man with a friendly smile took your bag from your shoulder, leading you around the counter and on to the jet way, veering left at the fork. The temperature shifted as you moved farther from the structure of the airport--the winter New York night seeping in through the cracks of the beige tunnel walls. Posters of happy travelers and airport workers smiled down on you, to fly, to serve. Their eyes watched you pad down the dull gray carpet towards the plane.

Smiles from flight attendants when you crossed the threshold, greeting you by name as your companion put an arm out, urging you in before him.

The interior of the plane was dimly lit a calming blue--the windows shaded electronically, making them appear to be black eyes into the night. You passed a galley stocked with coffee, tea, British Airways water bottles, heading down an aisle past cushioned seats--ones much nicer than the economy class you were used to flying. You’d assumed this was your section--each seat had armrests big enough for giants--but you passed through a curtain to find a section of small cubicles, not much different than your office.

One on each side, two in the middle.

“Had to give up the window for you,” you heard a voice sound from two rows ahead. A dimpled smile looked your way, when you met his gaze, you shook your head.

“This is incredible,” you looked around, taking in the sight of other suited men and bejeweled women settling in for the trip. “I didn’t even know shit like this existed.”

The man set the bag down on your seat, disappearing without a trace as Harry handed you something wrapped in plastic. “Your eye mask,” he delivered it with two hands, bowing his head to pull a giggle from your lips.

“Seriously,” you took it from him and let out a huff as you pushed the bag to the floor, slumping into the extra-roomy chair. “This is absurd. The traffic was terrible and I almost thought they wouldn’t let me on.”

“Shoulda come with me,” he said simply, his tone almost melodic. “The club they let you wait in is even better.”

You looked around again, surprised that Harry was able to exist in peace in front of so many strangers. “I can’t believe you fly on these--you don’t get mobbed?”

He handed you a packaged piece of chocolate from a small cubby in the wall in front of your chairs. A flat screen stared back at you, your fingers tugging at the wrapper before plopping the candy into your mouth automatically.

“Not really--these people are all too busy with their own shit,” he motioned around the room, both of your eyes landing on a man who was animatedly speaking into his cell phone. “A few pictures, maybe. If we’re lucky we’ll sleep.”

You nodded, content for a moment to just catch your breath, take in the surroundings of first class, and just be. Harry reminded you of the plans you’d set with your friends: a reunion at the Red Lion on the 23rd. It’d be the six of you for sure, but there’d likely be others who you’d all invite--running into other classmates at Sainsbury’s or Costa wasn’t unheard of.

You’d done the same thing in years past--your entire class heading for drinks and catch up conversations when everyone was back in town. The only difference was that this time, Harry would be tagging along.

If anything, you were more nervous about the six of you being back together than you were about seeing people like Maddie Winslow or even Kenny Tilley. None of them knew about that night. Luckily--as obnoxious and outlandish as they could be--Jessie, Adam, Jake, and Bryn had managed to keep their mouths shut despite knowing the ins and outs of what had happened.

Which, when you thought about it, meant Harry had, too. He hadn’t told anyone about the things you’d said or done. He didn’t rub it in your face or try to embarrass you in front of anyone else. The details of December 29th, 2015, would hopefully stay between the six of you for a long time to come.

After a good fifteen minutes on the runway, the plane was airborne. Estimated flight time six hours and thirty-five minutes, if we’re lucky, the captain said. You told Harry about your week and the things you’d rushed through this afternoon to leave work before 4pm. He laughed about the traffic and poked you in the shoulder when you rolled your eyes at him.

Thirty minutes later he turned to look at you, a strand of hair dipping down to his forehead.

“Smalls,” he said quietly.

“Hmm?” You turned to look at him, mid-chapstick application.

“I’m glad we’re hanging out.”

You stared at him for a second, your face tingly and hot when his lips twitched up into a smile. You nodded, broke eye contact, and capped your chapstick. “Mhm, yeah, me too.”

“Smalls,” he said it again, this time you looked at him more seriously.

“What?”

“Can we talk about it?”

You could have sworn the world went silent--the hum of the plane’s four engines suddenly muted as he stared back at you with emerald eyes.

Somewhere in the world there were ocean waves so high they could knock a boat off course. There were rainforests and mountains and deserts so dry they made the airplane cabin feel humid. You wished, as you sat next to him, miles of space between your feet and the ground, that you could be anywhere but here.

You opened your mouth to speak, words escaping you. You shook your head.

“Y/N, I just--”

“No,” you said. “Forget it. We both said we would forget it.”

He licked his lips, quiet for a second as he dropped his gaze to the carpeted floor. You stood up quickly, hoping an escape to the bathroom would place air and time between the two of you. You were stuck, though. You pushed the button twice that was meant to open the sliding door out of your tiny space--a human height shield from the other passengers.

You pressed it again, more frustrated each time your finger met the hard plastic.

“Here,” he said behind you, reaching past you to press the button right beside it. “You were pressing close.”

“Right.”

The door slid open, a flight attendant offered you a smile as she waited for you to exit in front of her. Down the hall, into the bathroom--much bigger than economy. A full length mirror, a toilet that actually resembled a toilet.

The door shut and latched behind you. Silence. You couldn’t talk about it with him. That would be more embarrassing than the night itself. What were you supposed to say? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it? I did mean it? You’d said all of those things before--in quick succession and with a heartbeat so fast you could have passed out.

A knock on the door. One second, you called out, turning the water on for a moment as if to make it sound like you were doing something other than panicking. You brushed past the stranger on the outside, offering an apologetic smile before heading back to your seat. When you got back, Harry had headphones in and a movie on the screen in front of him.

Thank god.

He smiled at you subtly, leaning forward to offer you a glass of champagne--someone must had dropped them off while you were losing your shit in the bathroom. You took it from him without a word, taking a sip as he took one earbud out of his ear and offered it to you. You pushed it into place and leaned back in the chair, still trying to catch your breath, grateful for the fact that he dropped it.

You didn’t need the whole plane ride to be awkward. If there was ever to be a moment for the two of you to talk about the ghosts of Christmas past, literally, it wasn’t right now. The trip would be nice with a movie and a nap--free chocolates and eye masks, too.

And besides, champagne tasted better at thirty thousand feet.

here’s what first class looks like for Harry and Y/N

read the other parts here

AN: big thanks to those of you reading big thanks for all of the messages!!! be sure to let me know what you think? Anyone want to take a guess as to what happened on 12/29/15?

tag list: @clorenafila @ainsleesolareclipse @castawaycths @harryspirate @wanderlustiing @ursamajor603 @thurhomish @omgsharry @jdcharliewhiskey @stepping-into-the-light @rachkon @jdcharliewhiskey @sad-little-asshole @ainsleesolareclipse @clorenafila @shawnsblue @gendryia @g0bl1nqueen @laula843 @pinkpolaroidgirl @4592222 @flooome @craic-head-horan @a-woman-without-a-plan @awomanindeniall @shaw-nm @staceystoleyourheart

#harry styles fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles writing #1dff #harry styles story #@harry styles writing #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagines #harry styles fic au #harry styles fic #harry styles writings #harry styles masterlist #harry styles x reader #harry x reader #harry styles reader insert #tytl #two years too late

232 notes · View notes

shineonmalcolmbright · 4 years ago

Text

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Two

Table of Contents

Past

Without Ainsley, Malcolm stood alone blinking several times to realize the wall in front of him was actually normal. The gutted remains of it ceased to exist. Of course, right? There wasn’t really crusty blood across its wound. He imagined it all. His brain brought it to life because as soon as a thought crept inside, it writhed around too fast skewing his thoughts. His mother complained about his brain because it led him into dark corners and there’d been Tommy, his so-called imaginary friend who warned him: You won’t be safe in Colorado.

“Wait!” Malcolm blurted to nobody in particular, he hoped he was alone but chances of ever being alone at the Overlook Hotel were slim. “It’s downstairs! It’s. . .downstairs. . .”

He’d found the magazine before while digging through the boiler room at some other point. If it wasn’t up here then it’d be down there. He was careful to not leave trails of murder behind in their pretend apartment. His mother would have a fit if she ever found out his sick new obsession. He followed an invisible path to descend into the bowels of the Overlook.

The journey straight into darkness felt as if his insides were bruised. A deep sick feeling inside of him. He saved a little flashlight in his back pocket knowing they’d meet again and again. There was some old song he heard his family play.

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

Now the light didn’t help out a whole lot. A bit of it sliced through the murky darkness. Humidity weighed it down with being so close to the boiler or so Malcolm guessed.

I’ve come to talk with you again.

Before he struck the last, last level he let the flashlight scan its way through the darkness to be sure he was alone. All he needed was to be alone, alone again, alone down here.

Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping.

Ghosts weren’t good company.

Malcolm closed his eyes for a split second once he touched down on the lowest level. He let the absence of sight increase his hearing but only the boiler grumbled. Alone. Alone. Alone again.

And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains.

He made his way over to the boxes full of newspapers and magazines. The stories of murder all compounded into one spot.

Dust floated and danced around him. His knees scraped the floor knocking more up into his face causing his nose to itch and himself to sneeze. Malcolm managed to catch it in the crook of his elbow. When nothing else made a sound, not even a mouse, he returned to the stories in front of him. Except before Malcolm could uncover the story of the family annihilator all over again to prove to Ainsley why her friends weren’t her friends, but instead the ghosts of murdered girls.

Murdered girls couldn’t make good friends.

There wasn’t any sign of the girls though. There wasn’t any sign of the father or the mother. He pried through it only to pause hating the idea falling into his brain at the sight of some old headline. The paper curled with slight decay.

Burglar uses Chloroform: Attacks a Woman in Room 237, Robs Her and Cuts off her Hair

No photo but underneath the article speared its way straight into the story.

According to experts, beautiful hair for wigs can be as valuable as some jewelry.

That imagination struck sending shivers down his spine thinking of how somebody had to find the woman with her hair shorn off and all her items gone. For some reason, he folded the paper and pressed down on its new crease. He squeezed it into his other pocket before returning to his search for those Grady girls.

“Pst.”

Malcolm froze.

He’d read about the crooked woman he found in the basement.

About how she threw all her children from the rooftop and hanged herself down here. They didn’t find her body for weeks. Police searched the town and further for her hoping to arrest her when she’d been falling to pieces beneath them all along.

Malcolm closed his eyes letting his hearing do some seeing. A muffled voice spoke up, it only spoke in gibberish and not quite at him. The gibberish sounded as if something or somebody tumbled over into some distant corner. It shut up and something slid across the floor.

Maybe if Malcolm told himself: It’s just shoes crunching along the ground like how shoes crunch on grave. Wasn’t like there was any gravel for the basement floor. Yet something slid forward brushing dust-up tickling his nose. His elbow caught his sneeze and then he opened his eyes for the first time to greet the fact that he wasn’t ever alone down there. Peering over his arm, he shined the light before him to find. . .nothing.

To be sure, Malcolm scanned the room with his light not seeing anything of interest. He checked each corner accidentally whispering out loud to himself each time, “Alone. Alone. Alone.”

Pst!

But that time around it sounded like the sole of a shoe for sure squeaking across the ground. He went to look over his shoulder to see what was coming.

There wasn’t anything nearby to protect himself and he had no idea if it’d help with a ghost antagonist. Maybe his brain could save him. He had the shining according to Gil and maybe he could shine real bright, brighter than the light in hand.

Only as he turned something grabbed a hold of him. Pressure hoisted him from the ground. His knees scraped the ground as some space came between him and the floor and somebody smothered him. His lungs burned without any oxygen entering them only it was worse when he attempted to breathe cause the burning grew, it seared his lungs, his mouth, and his chest right before the darkness took him.

Burglar uses Chloroform: Attacks a Woman in Room 237, Robs Her and Cuts off her Hair

“MALCOLM!”

Never before had a name sounded so violent. Jessica wielded each letter as if it were its own weapon. A series of knives or axes struck Malcolm. His head ached alongside all of his muscles. He rolled over burying his face into his pillow.

“Malcolm! Don’t you dare! You’ve been like this long enough, it’s time to wake up, get up, and start your day.”

When Malcolm sat up, he came face to face with his mother who put a hand on his forehead. She waited a few seconds and began to nod as if she were a doctor all along. “No more fever!” She backed away from him heading toward the kitchen area, which meant. . .

What?

“Fever?” Malcolm’s voice sounded all raspy. For a second, he feared he’d lost his voice all together. That the word in his brain would never leave. He looked all around. “How-How did I get here?!”

Jessica rolled her eyes. She popped the cork on a bottle of wine. “That’s not very funny, Malcolm, we’ve been here already for what? A month? More?” She began to pour herself a glass. “Seems longer than that.”

“NO!” Malcolm didn’t mean to snap. It did get Jessica to actually stop pouring her glass of wine. “I mean, how did I get here from the boiler room?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The boiler room! I was down in the boiler room! Something attacked me!”

Jessica took one long sip of wine, it seemed to be necessary as if it were her life source. “Malcolm, stop this nonsense before you scare your sister.”

But Malcolm looked all around, he wasn’t even wearing the same clothes but instead was in pajamas. Somebody was in the bathroom, the toilet flushed and water ran. He glanced up noticing Ainsley stood inside. Not that he meant to spy on her. Just her thoughts were so loud as she watched the water run pretending to watch her hands. In the time she stood there pretending, she could’ve just washed them.

Off to the side waited Malcolm’s notebook. He paged through it finding the same page as the day before and started to write 11/12. Only Ainsley leaving the bathroom with faint thoughts of Oh he’s awake disturbed him with the cacophony of Jessica playing out him rolling and rolling and rolling in his bed almost toppling off it for over 24 hours.

“What’s today’s date?” Malcolm blurted.

“November 13th,” said Jessia before taking another long swig of wine.

“Mr. Boots said it’s Friday the 13th, a bad luck day,” Ainsley added.

The day was November 13th and something. . .wasn’t. . .right. . .

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed. 11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something about taking a pill to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep. 11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it. 11/11: Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?

Malcolm held a pencil, it hovered over the page in his notebook while he sat up in his bed. Even with his mother in the kitchen, it felt as if she were hovering around him tweeting like a bird about a fever, fever, fever because somehow he got back there and had a fever?

There was a whole day missing.

11/12: ????

“Malcolm, look at me when I talk to you.” At least Jessica caught his attention. Malcolm poked his teeth with the eraser. “Are you sure you’re feeling better?”

Malcolm nodded and offered a smile, just for her.

“Do you want any orange juice? Ainsley and I picked it up from town yesterday.”

11/12: ????

“Oh, sure. Yes, please.” Malcolm managed to stay smiling at Jessica even as she turned away. Ainsley stood close by. She peered out of the kitchen at him giggling about something. He rolled his eyes and looked down at his notebook. There wasn’t even a memory around to why he started this, but again it made sense. Nothing stuck and a day was all gone.

11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?

#Prodigal Son #Prodigal Son fanfic #Malcolm Bright #The Shining #Overlook Hotel #Twins in Blue #Prodigies #Malcolm Bright whump

1 note · View note

phroyd · 6 years ago

Link

These Fucking Irresponsible Conservative Whack-Jobs! - Phroyd

The sending of package bombs to prominent Democrats and other high-profile figures this week was accompanied by a disturbing phenomenon. Baseless conspiracy theories, once confined to the fringes in the wake of violent acts, leaped with shocking speed into the mainstream discussion of the attacks.

A surprisingly large number of figures from the conservative establishment — commentators, radio hosts, a Trump family member, and other pro-Trump figures — shared, liked, hinted at, raised questions about or otherwise endorsed an evidenceless theory that this was a ��false-flag” attack — one that was staged to advance the political goals of the very people it seemed intended to hurt (in this case, Democrats).

But the FBI’s arrest of a suspect Friday pointed to the hollowness of these claims, raising questions about why they were voiced on such a fraught issue in the absence of evidence. The bombs were not “hoax devices,” FBI Director Christopher A. Wray said Friday. The suspect, 56-year-old Cesar Sayoc, “appears to be a partisan,” Attorney General Jeff Sessions said. And images circulating of the suspect’s van, which was plastered with pro-Trump and anti-Democrat imagery, and what wasbelieved to be his social media feed, painted a portrait of a distinctly right-wing ideology.

The devices were addressed to former president Barack Obama, former secretary of state Hillary Clinton, Rep. Maxine Waters (D-Calif.), former attorney general Eric. H Holder Jr., and liberal philanthropist George Soros. Most of the packages had the office of Rep. Debbie Wasserman Schultz (D-Fla.) as the return address.

In the fever swamps of misinformation and hoaxes on the Internet, the evidence presented on Friday did little to quell the conspiracy mongering. But would the more-established conservative figures who had spread these conspiracy theories admit they made mistakes?

Actually, most continued to dig in.

Ann Coulter, conservative author and commentator

Conspiracy theorizing: “From the Haymarket riot to the Unibomber, bombs are a liberal tactic,” she tweeted on Wednesday after CNN offices in Manhattan were evacuated when one of the bombs was found there.

Friday: Coulter did not back down from her statement, appearing to pivot instead to what appeared to be racially charged barbs about her belief that people of “immigrant stock” are more likely to engage in political violence. “I don’t make predictions, I cite history,” Coulter wrote in an email Friday to The Washington Post. “Sorry, not all immigrants are going to be Democrats.”

Rush Limbaugh, conservative radio host

Conspiracy theorizing: On Wednesday, Rush Limbaugh suggested that a “Democratic operative” was more likely to have sent the devices than a Republican. “Republicans just don’t do this kind of thing,” Limbaugh said. “You’ve got people trying to harm CNN and Obama and Hillary and Bill Clinton and [Florida Rep.] Debbie ‘Blabbermouth’ Schultz and, you know, just, it might serve a purpose here.”

Friday: Limbaugh, who did not immediately respond to a request for comment sent to his radio station, appeared to continue this line on Friday. “Two weeks out, a bunch of bombs start showing up in places that the media can then say that they are being received by ‘Trump targets?’ ” he said on his show. “I’m sorry. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck ever, and certainly not yesterday, and the world of October Surprises coupled with all the other realities I just exposed, and I think it only makes sense to be suspicious and demanding of proof for whatever we’re gonna be told.”

Michael Savage, conservative radio host

Conspiracy theorizing: Savage had said of the bombs Wednesday that there was a “high probability that the whole thing had been set up as a false flag to gain sympathy for the Democrats,” and as a way to distract from the migrant situation in southern Mexico, according to the Guardian.

Friday: Savage, who did not immediately respond to a request for comment sent to the administrators of his website, continued to sow doubt about the line of information coming from the authorities about the bombs.

“Michael, your description yesterday of the guy they’d pin (maga hat, confed flag,etc) sounds right on the money💰 Only thing you didn’t envision was a van slathered in pro-Trump images. Once again you were correct!,” he retweeted.

And a follow up: “MAN AND VAN LOOK LIKE CREATED BY HOLLYWOOD,” he wrote.

Lou Dobbs, Fox Business television host

Conspiracy theorizing: On Thursday, Dobbs wrote: “Fake News — Fake Bombs. Who could possibly benefit by so much fakery?” Dobbs later deleted the tweet.

Friday: Requests for comment sent to Fox News and Fox Business representatives were not immediately answered.

John Cardillo, right-wing media personality

Conspiracy theorizing: “Investigators need to take a serious look at far left groups like #Antifa when investigating the bombs sent to [liberal philanthropist George] Soros, Obama, and the Clintons,” Cardillo wrote on Twitter this week. “These smell like the false flag tactics of unhinged leftists who know they’re losing.” He later deleted the tweet.

Friday: Cardillo continued Friday to find ways to blame Democrats and absolve conservatives of responsibility for the package bombs. He tweeted that “far left” officials in Broward County, Fla., were to blame for Sayoc’s actions, given his prior criminal record. He said that Sayoc registered as a Republican only in 2016. And he said the “MSM” — mainstream media — ignored the story of how Donald Trump Jr.'s wife, Vanessa, was taken to the hospital after opening an envelope full of suspicious white powder.

[Trump Jr. says his wife is ‘safe and unharmed’ after opening letter containing unknown substance]

Geraldo Rivera, Fox News correspondent

Conspiracy theorizing: Rivera said Thursday that he believed “that this whole thing was an elaborate hoax.”

“I believe that those bombs were never intended to explode. I think those bombs were intended to further divide the American people,” he said. “Maybe it was a wretchedly incompetent bomber who didn’t know how to make a bomb, that never studied the Internet . . . someone who wanted to embarrass President Trump, somebody who wanted to affect American political life. It could have been a Russian invention."

Friday: Rivera is notable for being the only conservative out of this group to admit he was wrong. He said that the reason he had previously conjured up the theory that the bombs were a false-flag operation was that he “outsmarted” himself.

“Actual alleged perp 56-year old #CesarSayoc,” he wrote, “a middle-aged, rabid, extreme right winger w a troubled past & long criminal record.”

Bill Mitchell, conservative radio host

Conspiracy theorizing: “These ‘explosive packages’ being sent to the #Media and high profile Democrats has Soros astro-turfing written all over it so the media can paint the #GOP as ‘the dangerous mob,' Mitchell wrote on Wednesday. “Pure BS.”

Friday: Mitchell, who did not respond to a request for comment sent via Twitter, continued to sow doubt about Sayoc’s political motivations, hinting about a conspiracy afoot but providing no evidence.

“So many things about this Cesar guy do not add up,” he wrote on Twitter. “If he is #MAGA, why would he send these fake ‘bombs’ to Democrat Congressional Leaders 2 weeks before the midterms and disrupt our winning momentum? It makes no sense. That means there is something else here.”

Candace Owens, right-wing activist

Conspiracy theorizing: “I’m going to go ahead and state that there is a 0% chance that these ‘suspicious packages,’ were sent out by conservatives,” she wrote on Wednesday. “The only thing ‘suspicious’ about these packages, is their timing. Caravans, fake bomb threats — these leftists are going ALL OUT for midterms.” The tweet has since been deleted, but was screengrabbed by other users.

Friday: Owens did not respond to a request for comment sent to the conservative advocacy group for which she works, but she did not appear to have tweeted further about the issue.

Donald Trump Jr., President Trump’s eldest son

Conspiracy theorizing: On Thursday, Trump Jr. reportedly liked a blatantly erroneous all-caps tweet that claimed that the bombs were fake and “MADE TO SCARE AND PICK UP BLUE SYMPATHY VOTE.”Friday: Trump Jr. continued engaging with partisan tweets. He retweeted Rivera, who had noted that Sayoc’s criminal history predated Trump’s political career and liked a post that railed about the “Left’s violence, intimidation, & mob tactics.”

Abby Ohlheiser and Avi Selk contributed to this report.

Phroyd

#conservative #media #lies

28 notes · View notes

bravevulnerability · 7 years ago

Photo

A/N: Insert for Trading Heartbeats (in which Beckett is the writer and Castle is the detective), set during chapter 10 while Beckett is away in LA.

Inspired by the screenshot tweet above that was sent to me by @obsessivevirtualtrash and @trilbychild. Thank you so much for sharing this idea with me and I hope you enjoy the outcome. :)

In chapter 10 of Trading Heartbeats:

After the Candela’s case had been closed, Beckett had worked a few more cases alongside him and the boys before informing him that she had to fly out to Los Angeles the following week for a round of publicity gatherings and an important meeting with the head of Black Pawn. The book was in its final stages, the story nearly complete from what Kate’s told him, but he knows her agent, Jonathan, had been hounding her recently, complaining about her lack of time in the papers and on TV screens.

“I’ll be back in a week,” she had sighed the night of her flight, standing with him in the break room with the door only partially open and the blinds drawn. “Call me if any interesting cases pop up?”

“Sure thing, Beckett,” he had chuckled. “Call me if Jonathan drives you to commit a murder of your own?”

“Of course, no one I would trust more to help me hide the body,” she had quipped, wriggling her eyebrows at him. “Though, we should probably bring Lanie along.”

“Smart thinking,” Castle had praised, knowing he was making her late, but not wanting her to go and hating himself for it. It was one thing to tolerate having her around, but another to want her there, to loathe the idea of her leaving for seven short days. “Call me when you land too?”

The smirk had curled along the corners of her mouth, so enticing and maddening all at once. “Awful sweet of you wanting me to check in with you at one in the morning, Detective.”

“Shut up and go catch your flight, Kate.”

She had chuckled and swayed towards him, her eyes darting towards the cracked doorway before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “See you in a week, Castle.”

Calling him at night, after she had completed her responsibilities for the day, had become a habit he had grown to look forward to, answering her from his desk when the bullpen had cleared or from his bedroom while he slid beneath the cold sheets at the end of a long night. Discussing murder one moment and the absurdities of her job in the next, laughing over the boys’ antics or one of her run-ins with a fan, talking with her about everything and nothing late into the night had become far too important to him. It crossed lines and boundaries he himself had drawn, but he couldn’t help it.

Kate Beckett made him too damn happy.

Castle checks over his shoulder as he eases the door to the break room shut. It’s late in the morning, Ryan and and Esposito are out dumpster diving for evidence, something he should be helping with, but Kate’s supposed to be on this morning show at seven-thirty LA time and, like an idiot, he promised he would be tuning in.

Rick shuffles to the farthest corner of the room, taking a seat at the table with his back to the wall and the screen of his phone hidden from any prying eyes.

He follows the link to the livestream she sent him last night, teasing him about how she knew he wouldn’t tune in, but just in case he did…

The screen buffers before coming to life on a pretty blonde (a host named Christina? Candace maybe? Something with a C…) with a smile that’s a little too nauseatingly happy for his taste. The woman is already talking so he turns his volume up, just high enough for him to hear, too low for anyone outside the room to catch.

“And here to talk with us today is the author of the well-known Collette Stryker series. Hopefully, she’ll give us some insight into why she chose to end such a successful series and what she’s up to next. Please welcome, Katherine Beckett.”

His heart flutters at the sight of her striding out from behind the stage and he almost wants to press his hand to his chest, smother it in punishment. She looks good, always looks good, her hair in loose curls and her body long and lean in dark jeans and a tan blazer, a leopard print scarf around her neck and ridiculously high heels adorning her feet.

The host - he’s going with Candace - stands from the couch in the middle of the stage to embrace Kate, pecking her on both cheeks before laughing at something Beckett must have said. Probably some charming (or wry) remark that the host is obligated to smile for.

After they take their seats and Beckett waves to the crowd, winking at the camera on her face like she knows he’s watching. Does she know? Does she already have him so figured out that she predicted he would succumb to the internal urge to see her after four days of her absence?

Does she know he misses her?

“Ms. Beckett, it’s so great to have you here with us today,” Candace greets, beaming at Kate with a smile that must blind in person. “You flew out from New York, correct?”

Kate crosses her legs, the cuff of her jeans sliding to reveal the sharp stiletto of her heel. She’s wearing her favorite pair and he hates himself a little for knowing that.

“I did,” she confirms, her own smile rivaling the TV host’s. “New York is my home, but it’s always a pleasure to visit Los Angeles.”

Candace drags Kate through a list of questions about her writing, about her former golden goose of Collette Stryker, how New York provides her with inspiration for what comes next.

“Speaking of inspiration…” The host’s smile grows mischievous as she tilts her head to the screen behind them. “It’s rumored that the character of your upcoming book, Derrick Storm, is based on this hunk of a real life detective.”

Mortification swirls through his guts as a picture of him and Kate walking side by side to a crime scene appears on the screen behind the women. Audible gasps and murmurs of intrigue arise from the audience and he notices Kate lose a hint of her color.

Ah, so this was unplanned.

At least Beckett’s publicist, Jonathan, will have a field day attempting to sue them.

“What can you tell us about this new man in your life?” Candace inquires at Beckett’s lack of response, but Kate is quick to counter.

“I can tell you that your implication is all wrong,” Kate chuckles, playing it off as if she was prepared for this stunt all along. “The NYPD has been kind enough to let me shadow their detectives over these last few months and the man in the photo is in fact an officer of the law.”

“Is that all?” Candace asks, narrowing her eyes on Kate as if they’re about to share a secret on live television. “I mean, how perfect would it be for a writer to fall for her muse? And not just that, but isn’t it inevitable? Spending so much time with someone like that, not just in person, but on the page?”

Kate’s smile turns placating. “Candace, I have nothing but respect for the man in this photo, but I won’t demean his or any other NYPD officer’s hard work by playing into the rumor of a romantic connection. My work with the police has been insightful, but completely professional.”

Castle scoffs. Yeah, making out in empty interrogation rooms is the epitome of professionalism.

Her answer is perfect, though, exactly the kind of response he would have hoped for if he would have had any idea he and their relationship would be a topic of conversation on national television.

So why does he suddenly feel so bitter?

“All right, all right, I can take a hint,” Candace sighs dramatically. “But do tell me, does that mean the ruggedly handsome cop is on the market?”

Kate’s fist clenches over her knee, an undetectable response to an audience, but he knows her, knows her body, can read the signs.

Rick’s eyebrows rise. Interesting.

He watches her throat bob before her chest expands with a quick breath, reinforcing that strained smile across her lips. Little tells of her uneases, unnoticeable to Candace, the annoyingly bubbly TV host or her obnoxious audience, but he catches every single one.

“That’s not for me to say,” Kate answers.

Oh, but it is.

Because as long as he has Kate Beckett weaseling her way into his job and embedding herself into his life, how could he ever even look at another woman and feel anything close to what he feels to the one currently on his screen?

He wants her.

Candace begins to close with information about Kate’s previous work, a tentative date to look forward to for Derrick Storm’s release, and then she’s rising to shake Beckett’s hand.

Kate shakes it without a hint of warmth. Yeah, he doesn’t blame her.

Castle exits out of the livestream once he’s sure her segment is over and returns to the home screen of his phone. He hesitates for only a moment before opening his text messages, his conversation with Kate.

Completely professional, huh?

He only has to wait a beat.

Shut up.

He laughs, starts to type once more, but another text comes through before he can finish his.

But I’m touched that you tuned in.

He rolls his eyes, but he knows that she means it. That she probably didn’t expect him to honor his word and actually watch.

Are you still flying back on Friday?

She types back too fast, doesn’t give him enough time to compose himself, to think about what he wants to say, what’s enough and what’s too much.

Eager to engage in some acts of professionalism?

He almost lets himself be honest (god yes), but begins to delete the words before he can type past three letters.

Ryan and Espo are a mess without you.

No, that’s not good either. Too much subtext to what he really means (I miss you), too obvious.

Oh, screw it.

Yes.

He sucks in a breath, watches the ‘delivered’ sign flash.

Every second it takes her to reply, his heart beats louder in his chest.

Don’t tempt me to catch a flight out sooner.

He grins, almost tells her to do it, offers to pay the difference.

God, is he that desperate?

Just come back safe he decides on, hitting send and standing from the chair. Ryan and Esposito are probably wondering where he is and he’s spent enough time tucked away in the break room to arise suspicion by now.

Miss you too, Rick.

His lips quirk, feels his heart flicker with pleasant warmth, eager for her to come home.

#castle fanfiction #castle au #kate beckett #richard castle #trading heartbeats #castle #i apologize that this is so short!#and obviously nothing too special #but again #i truly hope you enjoyed :)#prompt #ish #mine

126 notes · View notes

ceruleanempyrean · 6 years ago

Quote

“My name is Joe Biden. I’m a Democrat. And I loved John McCain. I have had the dubious honor over the years of giving some eulogies for fine women and men that I’ve admired. But, Lindsey, this one’s hard. The three men who spoke before me I think captured John, different aspects of John in a way that only someone close to him could understand. But the way I look at it, the way I thought about it, was that I always thought of John as a brother. We had a hell of a lot of family fights. We go back a long way. I was a young United States Senator. I got elected when I was 29. I had the dubious distinction of being put on the formulations committee, which the next youngest person was 14 years older than me. And I spent a lot of time traveling the world because I was assigned responsibility, my colleagues in the Senate knew I was chairman of the European Affairs subcommittee, so I spent a lot of time at NATO and then the Soviet Union. Along came a guy a couple of years later, a guy I knew of, admired from afar, your husband, who had been a prisoner of war, who had endured enormous, enormous pain and suffering. And demonstrated the code, the McCain code. People don't think much about it today, but imagine having already known the pain you were likely to endure, and being offered the opportunity to go home, but saying no. As his son can tell you in the Navy, last one in, last one out. So I knew of John. and John became the Navy liaison officer in the United States Senate. There's an office, then it used to be on the basement floor, of members of the military who are assigned to senators when they travel abroad to meet with heads of state or other foreign dignitaries. And John had been recently released from the HanoI Hilton, a genuine hero, and he became the Navy liaison. For some reason we hit it off in the beginning. We were both full of dreams and ambitions and an overwhelming desire to make the time we had there worthwhile. To try to do the right thing. To think about how we could make things better for the country we loved so much. John and I ended up traveling every time I went anywhere. I took John with me or John took me with him. we were in China, Japan, Russia, Germany, France, England, Turkey, all over the world. Tens of thousands of miles. And we would sit on that plane and late into the night, when everyone else was asleep, and just talk. Getting to know one another. We'd talk about family, we'd talk about politics, we'd talk about international relations. we'd talk about promise, the promise of America. Because we were both cockeyed optimists and believe there's not a single thing, beyond the capacity of this country. I mean, for real, not a single thing. And, when you get to know another woman or man, you begin to know their hopes and their fears, you get to know their family even before you meet them, you get to know how they feel about important things. We talked about everything except captivity and the loss of my family which had just occurred, my wife and daughter, the only two things we didn't talk about. But, I found that it wasn't too long into John's duties that Jill and I got married. Jill is here with me today. Five years, I had been a single dad and no man deserves one great love, let alone two. And I met Jill. It changed my life. She fell in love with him and he with her. He'd always call her, as Lindsey would travel with her, Jilly. Matter of fact, when they got bored being with me on these trips, I remember in Greece, he said, ‘Why don't I take Jill for dinner?’ Later, I would learn they are at a cafe at the port and he has her dancing on top of a cement table drinking uzo. Not a joke. Jilly. Right, Jilly? But we got to know each other well and he loved my son Beau and my son Hunt. As a young man, he came up to my house and he came up to Wilmington and out of this grew a great friendship that transcended whatever political differences we had or later developed because, above all, above all, we understood the same thing. All politics is personal. It's all about trust. I trusted John with my life and I would and I think he would trust me with his. And as our life progressed, we learned more, there are times when life can be so cruel, pain so blinding it's hard to see anything else. The disease that took John's life took our mutual friend’s, Teddy [Kennedy]’s life, the exact same disease nine years ago, a couple days ago, and three years ago, took my beautiful son Beau's life. It's brutal. It's relentless. It's unforgiving. And it takes so much from those we love and from the families who love them that in order to survive, we have to remember how they lived, not how they died. I carry with me an image of Beau, sitting out in a little lake we live on, starting a motor on an old boat and smiling away. Not the last days. I’m sure Vickie Kennedy has her own image, looking, seeing Teddy looking so alive in a sailboat, out in the Cape. For the family, for the family, you will all find your own images, whether it's remembering his smile, his laugh or that touch in the shoulder or running his hand down your cheek. Or, just feeling like someone is looking, turn and see him just smiling at you, from a distance, just looking at you. Or when you saw the pure joy the moment he was about to take the stage on the Senate floor and start a fight. God, he loved it. so, to Cindy, the kids, Doug, Andy, Cindy, Meghan, Jack, Jimmy, Bridget, and I know she's not here, but to Mrs. McCain, we know how difficult it is to bury a child, Mrs. McCain. My heart goes out to you. And I know right now, the pain you all are feeling is so sharp and so hollowing. And John's absence is all consuming, for all of you right now. It's like being sucked into a black hole inside your chest. And it's frightening. But, I know something else, unfortunately, from experience. There's nothing anyone can say or do to ease the pain right now. But I pray, I pray you take some comfort knowing that because you shared John with all of us, your whole life, the world now shares with you in the ache of John's death. Look around this magnificent church. Look what you saw coming from the state capitol yesterday. it's hard to stand there but part of it, part of it was at least it was for me with Beau, standing in the state capitol, you knew. It was genuine. It was deep. He touched so many lives. I’ve gotten calls not just because people knew we were friends, not just from people around the country, but leaders around the world calling. Meghan, I'm getting all these sympathy letters. I mean, hundreds of them, and tweets. Character is destiny. John had character. While others will miss his leadership, passion, even his stubbornness, you are going to miss that hand on your shoulder. Family, you are going to miss the man, faithful man as he was, who you knew would literally give his life for you. And for that there's no balm but time. Time and your memories of a life lived well and lived fully. But I make you a promise. I promise you, the time will come that what's going to happen is six months will go by and everybody is going to think, well, it's passed. But you are going to ride by that field or smell that fragrance or see that flashing image. You are going to feel like you did the day you got the news. But you know you are going to make it. The image of your dad, your husband, your friend. It crosses your mind and a smile comes to your lips before a tear to your eye. That's who you know. I promise you, I give you my word, I promise you, this I know. The day will come. That day will come. You know, I’m sure if my former colleagues who worked with John, I'm sure there's people who said to you not only now, but the last ten years, ‘Explain this guy to me.’ Right? Explain this guy to me. Because, as they looked at him, in one sense they admired him, in one sense, the way things changed so much in America, they look add him as if John came from another age, lived by a different code, an ancient, antiquated courage, integrity, duty, were alive. That was obvious how John lived his life. The truth is, John's code was ageless, is ageless. When you talked earlier, Grant, you talked about values. It wasn't about politics with John. He could disagree on substance, but the underlying values that animated everything John did, everything he was, come to a different conclusion. He'd part company with you, if you lacked the basic values of decency, respect, knowing this project is bigger than yourself. John's story is an American story. It's not hyperbole. it's the American story. grounded in respect and decency. basic fairness. the intolerance through the abuse of power. Many of you travel the world, look how the rest of the world looks at us. They look at us a little naive, so fair, so decent. We are the naive Americans. that's who we are. That's who John was. He could not stand the abuse of power. wherever he saw it, in whatever form, in whatever ways. He loved basic values, fairness, honesty, dignity, respect, giving hate no safe harbor, leaving no one behind and understanding Americans were part of something much bigger than ourselves. With John, it was a value set that was neither selfish nor self-serving. John understood that America was first and foremost, an idea. Audacious and risky, organized around not tribe but ideals. Think of how he approached every issue. The ideals that Americans rallied around for 200 years, the ideals of the world has prepared you. Sounds corny. We hold these truths self-evident, that all men are created equal, endowed by their creator with certain rights. To John, those words had meaning, as they have for every great patriot who's ever served this country. We both loved the Senate. The proudest years of my life were being a United States Senator. I was honored to be Vice President, but a United States Senator. We both lamented, watching it change. During the long debates in the '80s and '90s, I would go sit next to John, next to his seat or he would come on the Democratic side and sit next to me. I'm not joking. We'd sit there and talk to each other. I came out to see John, we were reminiscing around it. It was '96, about to go to the caucus. We both went into our caucus and coincidentally, we were approached by our caucus leaders with the same thing. Foe, it doesn't look good, you sitting next to John all the time. I swear to God. same thing was said to John in your caucus. That's when things began to change for the worse in America in the Senate. That's when it changed. What happened was, at those times, it was always appropriate to challenge another Senator's judgment, but never appropriate to challenge their motive. When you challenge their motive, it's impossible to get to go. If I say you are going this because you are being paid off or you are doing it because you are not a good Christian or this, that, or the other thing, it's impossible to reach consensus. Think about in your personal lives. All we do today is attack the oppositions of both parties, their motives, not the substance of their argument. This is the mid-'90s. it began to go downhill from there. The last day John was on the Senate floor, what was he fighting to do? He was fighting to restore what you call regular order, just start to treat one another again, like we used to. The Senate was never perfect, John, you know that. we were there a long time together. I watched Teddy Kennedy and James O. Eastland fight like hell on civil rights and then go have lunch together, down in the Senate dining room. John wanted to see, “regular order” writ large. Get to know one another. You know, John and I were both amused and I think Lindsey was at one of these events where John and I received two prestigious awards where the last year I was vice president and one immediately after, for our dignity and respect we showed to one another, we received an award for civility in public life. Allegheny College puts out this award every year for bipartisanship. John and I looked at each and said, ‘What the hell is going on here?’ No, not a joke. I said to Senator Flake, that's how it's supposed to be. We get an award? I’m serious. Think about this. Getting an award for your civility. Getting an award for bipartisanship. Classic John, Allegheny College, hundreds of people, got the award and the Senate was in session. He spoke first and, as he walked off the stage and I walked on, he said, Joe, don't take it personally, but I don't want to hear what the hell you have to say, and left. One of John's major campaign people is now with the senate with the governor of Ohio, was on [TV] this morning and I happened to watch it. He said that Biden and McCain had a strange relationship, they always seemed to have each other's back. Whenever I was in trouble, John was the first guy there. I hope I was there for him. We never hesitate to give each other advice. He would call me in the middle of the campaign, he’d say, ‘What the hell did you say that for? you just screwed up, Joe.’ I'd occasionally call him. Look, I've been thinking this week about why John's death hit the country so hard. yes, he was a long-serving senator with a remarkable record. Yes, he was a two-time presidential candidate who captured the support and imagination of the American people and, yes, John was a war hero, demonstrated extraordinary courage. I think of John and my son when I think of Ingersoll’s words when duty throws the gauntlet down to fate and honor scorns to compromise with death, that is heroism. Everybody knows that about John. But I don't think it fully explains why the country has been so taken by John's passing. I think it's something more intangible. I think it's because they knew John believed so deeply and so passionately in the soul of America. He made it easier for them to have confidence and faith in America. His faith in the core values of this nation made them somehow feel it more genuinely themselves. his conviction that we, as a country, would never walk away from the sacrifice generations of Americans have made to defend liberty and freedom and dignity around the world. It made average Americans proud of themselves and their country. His belief, and it was deep, that Americans can do anything, withstand anything, achieve anything. It was unflagging and ultimately reassuring. This man believed that so strongly. His capacity that we truly are the world's last best hope, the beacon to the world. There are principles and ideals more than ourselves worth sacrificing for and if necessary, dying for. Americans saw how he lived his life that way. and they knew the truth of what he was saying. I just think he gave Americans confidence. John was a hero, his character, courage, honor, integrity. I think it is understated when they say optimism. That's what made John special. Made John a giant among all of us. In my view, John didn't believe that America's future and faith rested on heroes. we used to talk about, he understood what I hope we all remember, heroes didn't build this country. Ordinary people being given half a chance are capable of doing extraordinary things, extraordinary things. John knew ordinary Americans understood each of us has a duty to defend, integrity, dignity and birthright of every child. He carried it. Good communities are built by thousands of acts of decency that Americans, as I speak today, show each other every single day deep in the DNA of this nation's soul lies a flame that was lit over 200 years ago. Each of us carries with us and each one of us has the capacity, the responsibility and we can screw up the courage to ensure it does not extinguish. There's a thousand little things that make us different. Bottom line was, I think John believed in us. I think he believed in the American people. not just all the preambles, he believed until the American people, all 325 million of us. Even though John is no longer with us, he left us clear instructions. ‘Believe always in the promise and greatness of America because nothing is inevitable here.’ Close to the last thing John said took the whole nation, as he knew he was about to depart. That's what he wanted America to understand. not to build his legacy. he wanted America reminded, to understand. I think John's legacy is going to continue to inspire and challenge generations of leaders as they step forward and John McCain’s America is not over. it is hyperbole, it's not over. It's not close. Cindy, John owed so much of what he was to you. you were his ballast. when I was with you both, I could see how he looked at you. Jill is the one, when we were in Hawaii, we first met you there and he kept staring at you. Jill said, go up and talk to her. Doug, Andy, Sydney, Meghan, Jack, Jimmy, Bridget, you may not have had your father as long as you would like, but you got from him everything you need to pursue your own dreams. To follow the course of your own spirit. You are a living legacy, not hyperbole. You are a living legacy and proof of John McCain’s success. Now John is going to take his rightful place in a long line of extraordinary leaders in this nation's history. Who in their time and in their way stood for freedom and stood for liberty and have made the American story the most improbable and most hopeful and most enduring story on earth. I know John said he hoped he played a small part in that story. John, you did much more than that, my friend. To paraphrase Shakespeare, we shall not see his like again."

Vice President Joe Biden

#john mccain #biden 2020 #joe biden eulogy for john mccain

1 note · View note

stone-man-warrior · 4 years ago

Text

February 23, 2021: 3:19 pm:

===================================================

Controlled environment terror at the Peninsula.

https://twitter.com/ABC/status/1364350329802866692

“Tiger Woods Roll Over at the Peninsula w/leg injuries and surgical extractions”

Translation:

“Pen, making insulation (insulin, injection, IV User) problems at the dark back nine Egyptian Bangles playground (Pleasure Dome) treasonous money making machine”

now I remember what the name of that little ice cream & hamburger restaurant was called, the one in Simi Valley on Kuener Drive at the Santa Susana drop-in to Simi Valley, at the entrance to Hope Town, and just a short walk from the Village Market there in Simi Knolls.

“The Simi Valley Walk-In“

The place had a pointy roof, was an A-Frame cabin turned into a “eat out only”, “no indoor dining” little hamburger & ice-cream restaurant, where little kids vanished with their parents into the Hope Town that was behind the Simi Walk-In.

That is what the Tiger Woods Roll Over is really about. There are some other tweets that support that, news with a “74“ in it, is “HWY 74″ from Rancho Mirage (Thunderbird Golf Course & Country Club) to Laguna Nigel.

I suspect Woods is a placeholder for Obama for purposes of the terror comm presented there in the Twitter Trend.

I could go on and on and on and on and on about how that story is bullshit, happened already in the past on Beta Twitter, is a “command set” of re-arranged SAG terror communication, and is really about Rocketdyne, Bob Hope, a round house near Hwy 111 at the dog-leg in Palm Springs w/big fish aquarium built into a outdoor swimming pool ...

(airplane flyover to the south at 3:42 pm just now)

... and a whole bunch of other facts about global terrorism and murder of US Military servicemen under Linden B. Johnson, and other presidents since that time.

There is no one watching the baby, no help has come.

It gets increasingly more difficult to survive with each of these Tumblr entries as the assassins are literally lined up on the road I live on taking numbers and drawing straws, to see which of the terror cells are going to run the next attack at my house to kill me and take this account down.

95% of all of the terrorism on earth could be stopped, ended forever if this account were studied and acted upon as is laid out in a number of places within.

Take down Twitter first.

Take out number I O Downing Street.

Take out the Vatican.

Round up all of the SAG members and take them to Easter Island.

Round up all of the US Government Congress, and state Governors and take them to Easter Island. Drop them off.

Put a perimeter around Portugal & Spain.

Take custody of Google Inc.

Just those seven steps would be the beginning of the end of global terrorism forever. Twitter has to go first. nothing can be done while Twitter remains active.

With that done, then you go into Britain and flush out all of the so called British Royalty, emphasis is on all of the so called “Knights”, find all of the House of Lords members, and set them aside for special treatment, take House of Commons members to Easter Island, drop them off there with the others.

SIS MI6 GCHQ needs to be compelled, persuaded, to say what they know.

For every killing contraption they used on US Citizens, return that in like kind to British House of Lords members, Royalty and extended families and associates while SIS MI6 GCHQ is watching and deciding what they are going to say.

Boris Johnson gets to ride the slide first, as a “Pep-Rally” for the others in the viewing audience at the show.

=======================

4:30 pm:

“Pixar” trending on Twitter.

It says: “Potential Rollover at High-Center of USPS ‘The Stork’ terror cell“

Also, Jacinda Ardern is inside the truck with automatic weapons, she is stealth, the guns are mounted in the front grill, and there is at least one “Stow Away” child terror soldier riding beneath the truck in the frame work.

You don‘t see that information because you are US national security personnel and were intentionally trained not to see that kind of information. I don‘t mean to hurt your feelings there snowflake, it’s just the way it is, and if you don’t put on your big boy pants pretty soon, everyone dies at the end of the show.

It’s a Quentin Tarantino film. All of the characters die at the end, every time.

https://twitter.com/samjmintz/status/1364321263439724544

====================

4:52 pm:

That mail truck looks like a good design to me for bringing mail and looks easy on the mail carrier, easy to stand up inside, move things around as needed, less need to get out of the mail car to shift the sorted mail around, is safer, better, for the mail carriers, has a logo on it, lots of visibility, and there is no questioning what kind of vehicle it is or where it came from.

Where I live the mail cars are privately owned vehicles mostly. Only every once in a while does an official mail truck bring the mail. This route on my street has been delivered with a black nissan Quest minivan for that past many years.

This one:

Of note, is the words: “Black Jelly Bean“ on the rocker panel, and, on the right front door that signage looks a lot like an ice-cream truck menu. There are colorful lights that flash on that USPS mail car, and sometimes there is carnival music that is played when the horn is sounded.

There is also a green one just like that black one that runs on the Monument Drive mail route, and that one says: “Green Jelly Bean“ on the rocker panel, but otherwise is the same as the black one, both are Nissan Quest mini vans.

There is another black nissan Quest mini van at Monroe terror cell. The Monroe Nissan Quest looks similar to that USPS van, but has different markings on it. That Monroe van is filled with the poisons they use to blow into my house that make me cough, causes leg swelling, rash, are like laxative symptoms and sea sickness symptoms caused by the Monroe terror cell poisoning me over the past six years or so. The Monroe black Nissan Quest van says: “A-1 Exterminators Pest Control” on it in yellow lettering.

That USPS Quest Van is known to drive away, and leave an African Lion in the road on the street I live on. Sometimes if I am outside when the mail carrier comes, I wait there by my driveway, then go get the mail as the USPS is getting ready to drive away, the side door opens, and an African Lion comes out of the Quest USPS van, then the van drives away leaving me there about thirty feet away from the African Lion, and I have to fight the fucking Lion in the roadway to get my mail.

Like this one:

I have been unsuccessful at taking a selfie with the African Lions when the Safari terror cell turns them loose. It’s not that I don’t want to take a selfie, it’s just that a choice between a camera and a fingernail clipper always results in the fingernail clipper for defense, rather than glamour.

I have not received any mail this month at all that I can recall, maybe one ad for something first week of February, but I usually get some mail by this time in the month, at least some coupons, or something from Josephine County Search & Rescue asking me for a donation, but there has been no USPS mail this month. There was a door hanger left in the mailbox by the sheriff’s office, it was not mailed, it was just put into the mailbox by someone other than a USPS mail carrier.

The mail car photos are a few years old.

I have not seen the mail carrier for quite awhile as it’s too fucking dangerous to take a walk to the mailbox, and is more dangerous after contacting the White House for some help to stop murders of many hundreds of thousands of citizens in Oregon.

==========================================

6:21 pm:

Local Update:

A walk to the mailbox was cold, overcast, absence of wind.

I encountered Sandy Monroe who was tending to her chicken coup, the large one, with stage lighting, looks like a puppet show stage, complete with curtains.

I passed by there and went to the road.

A car alarm sounded on Russell Road as I was walking by the place where the Monroe cameras are pointed at my driveway.

I continued to the road.

There, I saw the Jerry Sienfeld w/beard looking fellow, with a large woman who was wearing black. They were standing out front of 445 Jackpine near the garage there, and the man was kicking a fallen tree with his foot as I began to walk towards the mailboxes.

I took these photos of the ribbon and pink flags I mentioned a couple of days ago.

This below looks like it says: “NoML” to me, and is written on the ground about two feet away from the Centurylink telephone access terminal box that is located directly across the street from my driveway, and is the one where my phone line is connected to, and is also one of the places where the local terror army have been hijacking my phone line, DSL internet usage service. I should have taken a photo of the terminal access box, but did not, it is visible on other photos on this account.

This is looking south on Jackpine. Dietricks terror cell is down there on the left, Myers is on the right at 560, Manning at 598 is beyond that on the right, and Fran Taylor terror cell as at the end of the road, dead end, at 600 Jackpine.

The photo was taken from directly across the street from my driveway, that is my property there to the immediate right, and that next clearing on the right is the 520 Jackpine vacant house that has been converted into a terror attack staging area and SAGClubMed Junket house for attacking me at my home.

To the immediate left is 445 Jackpine.

There is left turn you could take to get to Freeberg’s, Sparacino’s, Phillips, and Crowel terror cells just beyond the mailboxes there, is also a dead end.

This here shows the mailbox plank in it’s current condition, many of the usual mailboxes have been removed over the past few weeks.

Down there at the place where the green ribbon goes out view is where the Centurylink phone terminal access box is at, and you can barely see it there, that is where the orange writing is painted on the ground.

445 is to the right in this view, I live to the left. Straight ahead is north, and the Monroe’s driveway is there were the road is narrow. Beyond that narrow place is Chartrand 376 to the left, and Clyde Baum just around that bend to the right where the road goes out of view.

This is the place where the African Lion comes out of the USPS mail delivery car, sometimes, as I am standing where the photo is taken from, and the mail van has sliding door on the right and left sides, opens the door that suits them best, the Lion jumps out, and the van drives away leaving the African Lion there just to me left in the road.

This Pacific Power Tree Service notice from Asplunde Tree Service Inspector “Alex Finch” was left hanging on my address sign, is the same color yellow as is the sign, I almost did not see it there, all camouflaged onto the yellow address sign like that. The note advises that Asplunde Tree Service is going to be doing a property inspection on the Pacific Power Line Easement on my property, to clear away dead trees and limbs that are too close to the power line in one to six weeks from today.

That other green door hanger is the note saying I have important legal documents waiting for me at the sheriff’s office, and the specification is for Grand Jury Duty Service. That, as I mentioned before had been put inside of my mailbox, it’s dated 2-18-2021 and is is hand written note, and is not US Postal Mail. I got it out of the mailbox on the day I mentioned it.

Lori Churnside is the Josephine County Courts Jury Fixing Administrator, and would be the person responsible for arranging that when I am killed, there will be a replacement terror soldier person from SAG, or from Canada, that would go to the jury room to check in with their command chain at the court house.

What you see here with these ingredients has been done exactly the same way before.

That is a Pac-Pow, Asplunde Shnitzel Burger w/Sheriff Assist Murder Hit Arragement, comes with Centurylink Internet DSL Line Cut, so that on the day when the German Sausage Crew Tree Maintanance Chainsaw Massacre happens, I won‘t have internet connection on that day, and, the sheriff will be there, said to be providing protection for me, when he will simply turn, and look he other way, as the new, replacement me is installed at my house.

I have already survived three of these exact same terror hit scenarios before.

There will be dead tree maintenance people or I will be killed. There will be dead Centurylink Trench Cleaners, or, I will be killed, with addition of the uniformed sheriff, I have very little chance of survival on this one. I have survived the Sheriff assisted attack before, but it’s fucking insane, and I am older, and more broken, have been run over by a truck since that last time, and have spinal injuries, and am all weakened from years of Monroe poisoning me and all of the other ways the poison comes to my house.

Even if I survive, they already have the DMV License renewal attack all planned, and, there is one more attack that happens every year when I go to the Chase Bank for doing annual record keeping that I have to do, so, these next few weeks are going to be more challenging than ever before as far as it looks to me to survive.

That, and I have to go to the terror doctor and survive that too within the same time frame as the Sheriff Assist for the Chainsaw Schnitzel Asplunde Phone Wire Cutter Attack Scenario they have all set up.

Monroe will be playing a major role in the attack, as per usual.

It’s all fucked up.

no help has come, no help ever has come to Oregon in the required capacity. They always send four guys into the war zone where they are outnumbered 50,000 to 4 by the people they are trusting as escorts and liaisons.

Inside of my mailbox was my Mortgage bill, which increased at a mysteriously high amount of Escrow impound adjustment last month.

There were store coupons along with the Mortgage bill.

============

9:32 pm:

This BBC news story on Twitter is about trying to reach Lori Churnside at the local court Jury Fixing, Rigging, and Snuff Center.

Lori is affectionately known locally as “Lori Butter Face”.

Britain is trying to reach “Ms. Butterface”, Lori Churnside, who is a very attractive female special assassin in Josephine County Oregon.

Important detail: The Josephine County Sheriff’s Office is located behind the Walmart on F Street. Local terror operatives often fool federal agents by telling them that the sheriff office is at the courthouse on 6th & C streets. There is a fake sheriff’s office at the courthouse. The Grants Pass Police is centered at the courthouse, and at that police service counter, there is a window marked “Sheriff”. Anyone who goes to that service counter marked “Sheriff” at the court house indicating they were instructed to meet with the sheriff or a deputy there for an appointment, is automatically marked for having been sent to that service counter “Sheriff Snuff Window” at the courthouse. Federal agents who come from other states to investigate are simply sent to the courthouse, told it’s the sheriff’s office, and are killed there at the hijacked courthouse, while the victims boss thinks they went to F Street behind the Walmart. There is way too much evidence of terrorism hanging on the walls at the sheriffs office on F Street, so, they cannot afford to allow any federal agents to go in there, and send them to the Courthouse for take out at the fake sheriff service counter they have installed there at the Josephine county courthouse.

Everything around there is highly protected by many hundreds of scouts, and special operatives. Every time I go near the courthouse, a big crew of county grounds keepers shows up at the nearby county building on B Street to do yard work and gardening. They show up there within the time it takes me to find a parking place for going into the courthouse. Dozens of men, some are wearing orange yard maintenance worker clothing, and they show up in a big work crew van to B Street county building near the courthouse every time I need to go there. I don‘t need to go there more than once per year or less, but those guys are johnny on the spot when an outsider shows up. Every person you see at the courthouse, walking outside, parking their car, going in, coming out, all of the people at the adjacent buildings doing activities that look like normal busiwork is all a very special protection agency terror cell for the county courthouse. Many hundreds of people just protecting the terror cell that took over the courthouse is their job.

If you are investigating the courthouse here, you are investigating a 100% falsified set of repeating scripted activity that continues to revolve in a scheduled repetition over time. All of the court cases are false, actors play role of judge, jury, bailiff (Joe Satriani Rock Star: AKA: Deputy Aaron Porter), stenographer, audience, plaintiff, lawyer and district attorney. Every last detail of each person at the courthouse is performed from a written screenplay. The clerks are fake, they say their lines, use their props, go through the motions of acting. The people waiting in the lobby on chairs and benches are all actors/scouts, saying their lines, using props, wearing wardrobe, acting, watching, releasing nitrous oxide airborne gas when strangers go in there, and among them is someone who says the word: “Action!” loud when a stranger goes into the courthouse, people outside are there to say: “Places!” as a stranger goes into the courthouse. Everyone is connected with blu-tooth smart phone, and they call it “comm”.

This is the “Ms. Butterface” communication where BBC news is trying to reach Lori Churnside of Josephine County Courts.

(In war times, it used to be a valuable thing to have a spy behind the enemy lines for advising about what the enemies plans, language, leadership, and habits are. That is no longer the case. no one is interested. If the spy advised to take action that would save the lives of the people the spy reports to, then, those people would do what the spy advised. I advise strongly to take Twitter offline to save your own lives and mine.)

https://twitter.com/BBCWorld/status/1364396148623048705

==========================

Don’t forget: Ron Howard, Hollywood Director, used to be Opie on Mayberry RFD, is the man who directed the collapse of the World Trade Center, not a movie, the actual attack was directed by Ron Howard.

He was on that helicopter that morning, and he is the one who made the video switch from a real live shot, to a live shot with an inserted digitally enhanced series of frames showing the airplane hit the building, and it was done with precision timing to make it work for drawing global attention away from the attack at the Pentagon. WTC collapse was only for a distraction, so the Pentagon could be taken among the confusion in new york.

That report right there, about Ron Howard, is the reason the Asplunde Tree Pacific Power w/centurylink wire cutter and sheriff assist murder hit is being done at my house.

Ron does not want to go to prison for treason, that is why.

============================================

8:05 pm:

From Washington Post on Twitter:

Face value of the news item says, Joe Biden is concerned about computer chip production.

Translation includes Gnosis explanation about computer chips. We have all been told that the computer chip is a mysterious silicon tiny thing. Reality, silicon is Sand. Sand, is Thorium. Thorium is terror code that means “slaves”.

Then, the chip itself is not all that complicated as they say it is. The powers that be at Bill Gates terror HQ invented a complex story about computer chips. Truth is that the computer chip is a very small transistor, is the same technology as any transistor is. Tech companies tried to warn us about that when the began labeling the AM Radio’s as “Transistor Radio” in the 1960′s.

So, a transistor is far more simple for an average person with some electrical knowledge to understand than is a “silicon micro computer chip”. It’s a way to keep the club a private club by making a relatively simple thing into a complex mysterious thing. Transistors are beyond my expertise, but I do understand ways society is brain washed, and silicon micro chip is such a brainwash when the reality is that it’s a transistor.

Then, there is the translation of the actual tweet:

Biden is concerned about the “shortage” (think Pleasure Dome Partner Production here) of “Transistors”. That, is in relationship to Biden’s first presidential move, to allow transgender in the military.

Bottom line is Biden is concerned about exposure of knowledge that the US Military servicemen have been used as experimental surgery specimens that alter them to the extent that they no longer resemble human beings.

no one cares about US servicemen being forced into a lab for amputations and plastic surgery for the purpose that the SAG surgeons can practice making experimental changes to human beings.

That is what transgender news is about on twitter presented by SAG news media personalities.

https://twitter.com/washingtonpost/status/1364414504348622849

====================

8:45 pm:

“Real terrorism murder” vs “blockbuster movie terror murder”:

In the movies, the murderers do everything they can do not to make a spectral of murder that they are doing, they don’t draw attention to themselves in the movies.

In real life, the mass murder is a big production, has a lot color, texture, is multilayered, and is loud, draws a lot of attention to things that look as if they are normal and customary activities. When the activity begins, all of the noise, odors, people involved, vehicles, equipment, other stuff, will all be expected to happen by the time the mass murdering begins, work gets under way, and in that work, the mass murder takes place in the daytime, during normal business hours, within the normal and customery activity of a series of projects. The murders of this kind works on large scale and on small scale when the neighbor gets a new lawn mower, and shows that the lawnmower is new, that way, everyone is going to be expecting that the lawn will be mowed right then. Some one gets murdered at the house down the street, while new mower is running. Somehow, innocence is presumed because the new lawn mower was shown off ahead of the murder.

So, the Asplunde Pac-Pow tree service, and the Centurylink Trench Cleaners, and the sheriff have all presented enough confusion that will allow Monreo and Sparacino to come out of the shadows at some point to kill me while the focus is on the easement brigade and the trench cleaners and the sheriff all working together to make a confusion service that puts Monroe, and Sparacino terror cells lower on the personal safety meter than they usually are.

It’s all about advertising, set-up, color, texture, odor, to draw attention in a desired, controlled direction while the other people in the shadow use that as a foundation spring board to leap from on attack day, which is different than the expected day.

If that fails, then the Asplunde easement and Centurylink trench cleaners w/sheriff assist can take a whack at me at that time.

These people are all trained military, unconventional terror military. Where US military uses a tank and anti aircraft artillery, these people use a road block at a freeway bridge project. It works better as an offense than does a uniformed conventional army that was built for defense. And, since they all look like citizens, they are very difficult to defend against.

0 notes

outoftheready · 5 years ago

Text

Let’s Get Started (Originally posted elsewhere on June 13, 2019)

Music is a big part of my life. A majority of people (at least those I know) would say the same thing. A favorite band or a song that someone feels defines a part of them. Songs can help you through a rough time. A song can lift your mood. Songs create this narrative for us that we sometimes can’t explain ourselves. We create playlists, in our phones, iPods, Spotify, Apple Music, whatever your favorite platform is. Some even still make a mix in CD form. We can share these songs, keep them to ourselves, even force these songs on others. “Listen to this song. It’s so me. This is my life!” I have tried to share songs quietly by sharing them on Facebook or slipping into a mix I’ve given to someone hoping something in the lyrics would click with them and hear me in the song.

I’m also big into story. I once made a 3 CD mix for a girl, taking lyrics from the songs and turning them into a story for her. I never gave it to her. It would have been weird and possibly inappropriate. I’ll reveal why in a minute. I find songs all the time where maybe one line resounds with me, and it brings out a little bit of my life. I have a playlist of those songs and one day while listening to that playlist a thought came to mind and wondered if I should take those bits of songs and do something with them. Should I start a blog? I used to have a Tumblr, but that might not be the best place. That Tumblr hasn’t been active in about four years though. There are some people who know/knew about it and I’m not ready for some of them to know what I’m going through.

All my life I’ve never liked who I am. It all started to hit pretty hard over the past year. Some friends were able to tell and had many people asking if I was alright. I would tell them I was fine or had just a little anxiety. Never once in my life did I feel normal. I always hated myself, my body. I was considered a tomboy, probably thought to be a phase by most. Once one of my great-aunts had asked my mom, “What if she is a lesbian?” I was pretty young when my mom told me that and I knew then that I wasn’t. I knew that I felt like a boy. In my heart, I was a boy. Being gay would probably be a whole lot easier than being transgender. There are so many things that will change and everyone will have to get used to it or just not be part of my life. Someone one day posted or liked a tweet by this guy with a goofy profile picture of him wearing tiny sunglasses, I was intrigued. I looked to see what he was about and found out he was this transgender guy, I may have hesitated a little but followed him immediately. There was a lot of wondering on my part if I should continue to follow him. What if my Christian friends looked at who I follow? What if I liked one of his tweets, or responded, or even worse felt compelled to retweet something? What will happen if I get found out? By following him I have found other trans guys and a watched a bunch of videos. I have found out so many things. There is more than just testosterone injections, getting top surgery to remove these things on my chest I carry around, more than just a voice change.

I wrote this horrible Cliff’s Notes version of my life and let a few friends read it. I even came clean with a now former friend of some feelings I had for her. I’m sure I must have done something else other than revealing that to make that friendship end the way it did. Parts of that week are kind of a blur. It was so stressful finally getting all this bottled up mess out. It’s a little embarrassing actually. Maybe it shouldn’t be. I wish I knew what it was that I did. I had to write my story. I had to let her know. I had to get it all out. If I didn’t I knew I would get more anxious. I know I would get even more depressed. I knew I would begin to completely loathe who I am and everything about my life. I didn’t want that. I don’t think I could deal with that. I knew I needed to get better, to not hate myself any longer. To feel like a person.

One of the hardest parts of going through this is that I’m in my late 30’s and have never talked about this until 9 months ago. The other hard part is I work at a church. That’s where I met the girl I made the 3 CD/story mix for, and that was yeaaaaaarrrrrrrrrssss ago. I’m not a pastor or leader of any sort really. Recently the church (more like that pastor) has been softly going after gender identity and it hurts-they don’t understand. I heard someone once say something along the lines of, “If you feel upset about it in your spirit it’s the conviction of the Holy Spirit.” I used to just roll my eyes when they would speak out against homosexuality because I knew they didn’t understand and/or didn’t want to. Now that it seems like they are losing that fight, the religious Christians are gunning for those who struggle with gender identity. It hurts. It feels so hate driven. Maybe they don’t mean to be that way. Maybe they don’t know they sound that way. And with every “amen” I hear it tares me down. I can feel the disgust. I can imagine the look of disappointment in the faces of those who used to be so happy to see me and want to hug me. Or the fake love they will give. And, the discomfort I feel is not the conviction of the Holy Spirit, it’s that lack of their understanding. It’s that judgment I feel from the tone of their words. The discomfort I feel is their unease for those like me and all the other types of people in the LGBT community.

For over 30 years I’ve struggled with who I am. For nearly 30 years I’ve had kids asking if I were a boy or a girl. I knew I hated who I was from an early age. Those many birthday candle blowouts or first star I see tonight wishes to be a boy. In kindergarten never playing dolls or house with girls on the other side of the room. Except for that one time I tried and that probably lasted all of two minutes, then went right back to playing on the slide and painting on the easel on the other side of the room with the boys. In first grade stealing a baby bottle nipple and fixing it to where it would need to be for me to stand up and pee. It worked surprisingly well. I then didn’t know what to do with it because I tried it in school during a restroom break and threw the bottle nipple in some random corner of the girls bathroom. Somehow one of the girls saw my feet facing the toilet and for years would tell me that she saw me peeing standing up. It was always when there were other kids around and I would get so embarrassed. For years I’ve been holding in this sadness. Holding in my fears. Letting it develop into a painful anxiety and depression. And to be honest I never thought I would make it this far in progress and in life. I used to pray that if this was all wrong that God would give me cancer so that I could die. I’m still here.

I’m in therapy now. It’s been helping me tremendously. But writing things down has always been a way for me to really get things out because I can think about how I want to say things. I’m not always good at getting things out while talking, I shut down. Recently though, after being open about things, it’s a little easier to talk. And, what the fuck is up with all the damn crying that comes with it. Fuck me. I have cried more in the past year than I have in probably the past 15 years. I guess I’m finally finding my way out.

Being a very scattered thought person, I am writing multiple posts at the same time. I will try my best to not repeat things and if anything is ever confusing I apologize beforehand. The girl I am no longer friends with, in our last texting conversation she said something like I was just trying to get attention and acting like a middle schooler, I almost didn’t do this out of fear that it would look like I was trying to seek attention. I’m not. I’m just trying to get better. And I’m not sure if every post will have a relatable song or if every post will have a song, but I’ll try. If there is ever a song you think fits with a post or maybe a song you think I would enjoy go ahead a let me know. Please ask me questions. Even the dumbest questions. And If your a friend of mine keep on me about getting this stuff out. I kind of hate that I’m finally posting this during Pride Month. Mostly because I don’t want it to seem like that is why I’m starting this. It’s merely a coincidence that this is getting posted now.

I’ve always struggled at the root of the problem Has it been absence or my constant lack of defense? I’ve never spent a lot on finding a remedy I guess I figured that it hurts for a reason I guess that’s why I’ve always turned to writing it down Not just in stories but the letters in between And I guess that’s why it haunts the pages of everything To self-examine I think the thing is that I shut off from everything From friends and family and my own ambitions From having fun I just shut off from everything Self-defeating? Yeah, probably

“A Letter” by La Dispute

youtube

My friend, don’t look down

You’ve got to face what’s in front of you now

Don’t waste your time making excuses

Cause son you’re about to find out

You might just figure out

What you’re made of

“Not Fair” by Bayside

youtube

Don’t let them break you.

Don’t let them tell you who you are

“Bamboo Bones” by Against Me!

youtube

#ftm #ftm blog #christian ftm #la dispute #bayside #aginst me!#trans christian

0 notes

jatamansi-arc · 8 years ago

Text

Shabbat Sh’mot 5777

20 January 2017 Rabbi Michael Adam Latz Shir Tikvah Congregation

Cry Unto Pharaoh!

ויקם מלך חדש על מצרים אשר לא ידע את יוסף

A new pharaoh rose up over Egypt who knew not Joseph. Now, when we ended the book of Genesis last week, Joseph and Pharoah had a close relationship—you remember how cozy those two were, saving all the Egyptians and the Children of Jacob by planning ahead; well, the Jews thought they had it made in the Egyptian shade. Not so much. Over the years, this new pharaoh strategically and intentionally made life more and more difficult for the Israelites: taking away their rights, enslaving them, beating them, challenging their basic dignity.

וַיֵּאָ נְ ח֧ ּו בְ נֵֵּֽ י־יִ שְ רָ אֵּ ֵ֛ ל מִ ן־הָ עֲבֹ דָ ָ֖ ה ַוִי ְזָָ֑עקּו

The Israelites groaned under the bondage and cried out;

The new pharaoh was cruel and paranoid, indecent and violent. So we cried out to God—

We cried out to resist tyranny. Because we knew in our bones that slavery and human dignity are incompatible.

Raise your hand if you know the name of the person who delivers your mail? How about the name of the person who picks up the garbage or the recycling or the compost from your house or apartment or condo? This is how white supremacy works, how racism works—it seduces us with a fallacious notion of radical individualism that says we can and must do everything on our own. But in reality, it isolates us so that we don’t even know the names of the people who are intimately involved in our lives: people who pick up our trash, serve our food, draw our blood, clean our streets. It divides us. It dehumanizes us. You want to be a religious person? Learn people’s names. Listen to their stories. Share your own. Break down those invisible but potent barriers. Story telling is a radical act of resistance.

Tonight is a night for stories.

I want you to know the names of two women who remade the world—and without whom, we wouldn’t be here tonight: Shiphrah and Puah.

Shiphrah and Puah were the midwives who delivered the Hebrew babies. And when Pharaoh decreed that all the Israelite boys must be killed (he got paranoid the Israelites would form a mass army and rebel), they engaged in history’s first act of civil disobedience. They refused to do what the almighty Pharaoh demanded.

Pharaoh was furious! “Why are you disobeying me?”

Shiphrah and Puah answered him, “The Hebrew women are vigorous! Their labor is so short—they give birth before we arrive.”

C’mon folks. Shiphrah and Puah lied. They lied to save those babies. They refused to destroy innocent human life because of the ravings of a megalomaniac lunatic. According the Egyptian legal system, they broke the law! But God rewarded them and their households.

And we remember Shiphrah and Puah—and their epic moral courage—this night.

The Exodus story recalls our people’s liberation from slavery to freedom. It wasn’t an easy road to freedom. You might remember the story? Moses didn’t walk up to Pharaoh in his palace one day and say, “You know Sir, we’d like to talk. You see, while we really enjoy working seven days a week in the hot Egyptian sun and don’t really mind our task masters beating us or throwing our baby boys in the Nile, we’ve decided that this just isn’t the right match for us Israelites. Thank you for your time, but we’re going to depart to worship our God in freedom. How does next Tuesday at noon work for you?”

C’mon!

This liberation wasn’t easy! Pharaoh’s heart was stone. The Israelites spent 400 years being treated like garbage. Moses had a hard time speaking in public and the people had Egypt in their hearts. Few of them could imagine a different life—a world where they were free. In fact, the rabbinic commentators explain that the Israelites couldn’t even hear Moses at first—mi-kotzer ruach v’avodah kashah—they were being worked so hard they couldn’t even breathe, much less imagine freedom.

That’s precisely why there were 10 plagues before Pharaoh let the Israelites go free. Why? To remind us that freedom doesn’t happen over night.

You and I—we’ve got a lot in common now with Shiphrah and Puah: as of noon today we are called to engage in ancient acts of resistance. We’re gonna get uncomfortable. Are you ready to get uncomfortable? Are you ready to disrupt business as usual?

That’s hard for a lot of us. We like things orderly. We’re Minnesotans. We’re nice.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote in his famous letter from a Birmingham Jail, “I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection."

Today, in 2017, the same folks who are demanding a Muslim registry are likely some of the same folks calling in bomb threats to JCCs and bringing guns aplenty into mostly poor, mostly Black and Brown neighborhoods; they’re the same pharaohs who want to take social security away from old folks and health care away from the sick; and blame all our problems on Brown immigrants and Transpeople using public bathrooms as they engage in the cynical politics of division and distraction—all the while never doing a damn thing about Aleppo or the rising oceans or public education or building a bridge or creating a job for anyone not selling oil to Russia.

Those 10 plagues were as much to challenge the Egyptians and the Pharaoh as they were to show the Israelites that we had the power of endurance; the plagues helped the Israelites slaves build the requisite faith and the spiritual muscles to resist tyranny. We build faith step by step, story by story, person by person.

Those 10 plagues were the original politics of disruption; humanity’s boldest wake up call.

You beat these slaves? We’re gonna ruin your water!

You overwork these people? We’re gonna wreck your crops!

You won’t pay them? We’re gonna block your roads!

You won’t free them? We’re gonna turn off the lights!

You deny people their basic human dignity? We coming!

After 10 plagues, Pharaoh’s hardened heart finally shattered and our people marched to freedom!

Because enslaving people, discriminating against people, denying people their innate dignity is such a profound theological affront to God that business as usual just isn't possible. We must never forget where we've come from and who we are: We were slaves in the land of Egypt, you and I; those are the words we recite every Passover seder. This. Is. Personal. Human dignity is our ultimate theological concern. And when that means interrupting business as usual to break the chains of bondage, then it is both our religious inheritance and our moral obligation to rise up against the tyranny that prevents all people from being fully human.

In the next four years, I imagine there are pharaohs who will tell us— or tweet us—something that assaults the deepest promptings of our conscience. Will we stand in the moral breech like Shiphrah and Puah? In our hands will be the decision to join Pharaoh or to engage in moral resistance. Sometimes it will involve rallies and letter writing campaigns and testifying to legislative committees. At times, like Shiphrah and Puah we will be called to proclaim there is a higher, holier purpose and we must be emotionally, spiritually, and ethically prepared to do what is necessary to make manifest those ancient values. Values that cry out like the babies the midwives kept alive— because we know we cannot break that which is already broken—our task is alive with hope and compassion, promise, and redemption. This moment cries for our spiritual and moral resistance to normalizing hatred and violence against people who are different, who look different and pray differently—because we believe what we were taught when we first embraced Torah—that humanity was created in God’s image… That Love. Trumps. Hate.

The Exodus was a theological revolution. It is time for a new theological revolution, a new moral revival!

Every synagogue and mosque and church most now call ourselves to compassionate activism, to stand up for the poor, the stranger, the widow, the orphan, the poor, the sick, the immigrant, the Muslim, the Gays, the Trans, the person of color, the elderly, those with disabilities.

If our belief in God does not demand the mitzvot—the commandments—of love, compassion, generosity, and a robust commitment to healing our planet, if it is only focused inward, on the self, its simply narcissism.

The time has come for authentic people of faith to rise up and resist the blaspheming of our religious traditions: Jesus hung with the prostitutes in the hood, Moses crossed the border with a motley band for former slaves with no papers, and Muhammed proclaimed that our attachment to worldly possessions would destroy our ability to see God in the world.

It is time for a theological revolution in America:

A theological revolution where we wake up to the suffering around us and strive, together, to find ways to build a community and society with compassion as the cornerstone of our social policy and human dignity and mutual respect at the heart of our politics.

A theological revolution where people of faith proclaim that racism and sexism and the worship of guns are blasphemy and addressing mass violence and the need for decent public education and quality affordable health care and work that pays a sustainable and thriving wage are not merely rights in a civilized society; they are moral commitments we must make to one another and the next generation.

It is time for a theological revolution in America where we are willing to listen to people who disagree with us because we hold their humanity and our collective future in our hearts and because, to be a person of faith means that hope is a commitment we make to ourselves and to our children.

It is time for a theological revolution that brings to life the Golden rule—do nothing hateful to another human being precisely because we are our sister's and our brother's keepers.

And it is time for a theological revolution that says if and when we invoke the name of the Eternal we better be prepared to defend all of God's creatures and creation with every fiber of our bodies and souls—especially the ones who drive us bananas.

Today, we inaugurated a president who traffics in hatred and colludes with white supremacists. There are those who choose to cozy up to him and his administration, or worse: who suggest we wait and see. No! When you appoint a white supremacist as your chief adviser, when you nominate a man who does not believe in fairness to people of color as your attorney general, when you nominate a climate denier to head the Environmental Protection Agency, when you boast about grabbing women with impunity and you mock those with disabilities, when you threaten to register my Muslim sisters and brothers, when you threaten the health care of 18,000,000 of our fellow citizens, you have shown that you do not share the values of people of faith in this great nation. Our moral tasks are resistance, resilience, and repair.

We will not stand idly by while you make our neighbors and our planet bleed with the stench of xenophobia and racism and sexism. The prophet Elie Wiesel (z”l) taught that we might not be able to stop all injustice, but we’ll all be damned if we don’t try every chance we have.

Our moral task in the next four years is clear:

1. Resistance! Shiphrah and Puah paid attention to the challenges and the world around them. Disrupt and interrupt cruelty every time you witness it. Let no racist joke get finished, no sexist commentary to go unchallenged, no locker room talk be spoken in our presence, no rejection of people who look or pray or believe differently. This is what chutzpah looks like. It means defending what is right, speaking out, and resisting normalizing cruelty even when it doesn’t make you popular. Especially when it doesn’t make you popular.

2. Resilience. If you belong to Shir Tikvah or another spiritual community trying to live into our theological and moral commitments—awesome! If you are not yet a member, what are you waiting for? The only way we’re going to get through this moral swampland is by holding on and joining one another, fiercely. That means supporting the organizations who provide moral leadership in this time of moral crisis. We are powerful, together.

3. Repair. Show Up! Be present. Stretch Spiritually. We’re going to be asked to be present and it’s going to be hard. Its gonna be cold. (Its Minnesota folks; weather is always gonna happen). We’re gonna be tired. And still we need to show up. To rallies. To protests. To the halls of the State Capitol. To congress. To City Hall. As people of faith. Because we believe in human dignity and that our public leaders are servants of the public—not the other way around.

4. Finally, Keep Going. Eight years ago, then Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton spoke about a famous New Yorker, Harriet Tubman. Tubman, as you know, guided more than 300 slaves on the Underground Railroad, from the southern slave states to the free states in the north. “And on that path to freedom, Harriett Tubman had one piece of advice.

If you hear the dogs, keep going.

If you see the torches in the woods, keep going.

If they're shouting after you, keep going.

Don't ever stop. Keep going.

If you want a taste of freedom, keep going.

Even in the darkest of moments, ordinary Americans have found the faith to keep going.”

We who believe in freedom cannot rest.

We who believe in love, compassion, and human dignity cannot rest.

We who believe that ours is a nation of immigrants cannot rest.

We who believe in the equality, justice, and care for our planet cannot rest.

We who believe that Shiphrah and Puah were right and just when they defied Pharaoh’s immoral decree cannot rest. Keep going!

#jewish things #ooc #sort of #this is my synagogue's standard fare #and people wonder why i'm like #'ahh yeah erik lehnsherr is so jewish let me tell you'#what would ever give me that fucking impression ever

2 notes · View notes

theconservativebrief · 6 years ago

Link

LAS VEGAS — Harry Reid had no business winning as many races as he did in purple Nevada over his many years in the US Senate, but the Democratic machine he built in the state proved formidable. Now, out of the Senate and recovering from cancer, Reid could still emerge as Democrats’ most important kingmaker, even in retirement.

Reid quietly has his hand in the race against Nevada Sen. Dean Heller, considered the most endangered Republican senator this year. Hillary Clinton won the state in 2016, and polls show the race is a dead heat.

A handful of Democrats were eager to challenge Heller, including Rep. Dina Titus, but Reid cleared the field for Jacky Rosen, a 61-year-old freshman Congress member, ex-synagogue president, and former computer programmer.

Rep. Jacky Rosen (D-NV), who is running for Senate, greets voters at an event in East Las Vegas. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

“He personally recruited Jacky to run for Congress and then Senate,” one former aide said. “He’s been a huge fan of hers from the beginning.”

Reid took a bet that Rosen, a moderate Democrat with a relative lack of political experience, would be the right kind of candidate to run against Heller in purple Nevada. Political experts in the state agree that Rosen’s thin voting record is a boon juxtaposed with Heller’s lengthy (and often shifting) political stances on key issues like health care.

This bet also comes with a risk — Heller is a known quantity in the state, and he might be able to define Rosen before she can define herself. But Reid is not averse to political risk, since he was an early backer of former President Barack Obama, when Obama was still a freshman senator.

The race is a must-win for Democrats if they have any shot at taking back the Senate. Even with Democrats up in the polls and President Trump’s dismal approval ratings, the math does not look great for Senate Democrats. They have a very narrow path to victory, and it goes straight through Reid’s Nevada.

Left, Steven Camacho, 16, and Tristian Brower, 18 — volunteers for PLAN Action in Nevada — talk with resident Ronald Carter while canvassing a neighborhood in Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

Right, Steven Camacho, 16, speaks with his team while canvassing a neighborhood in Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

The Democratic Party’s success or failure this November rests on shoulders of the legendary “Reid machine,” a grassroots army of local organizers, Culinary Union members, and state Democratic Party workers and volunteers. They’ve been canvassing the state for Rosen and other Democratic candidates for months, even in sweltering 100-plus-degree desert heat. Year after year, the Reid machine has done what other states cannot: successfully turn out Nevada’s growing Latino voting bloc.

“The machine is still here,” said Megan Jones, a former longtime Reid campaign aide and current Democratic consultant at Hilltop Communications.

The best way to understand Harry Reid’s lingering influence on Nevada politics is to look back to 2016. While that year was a bloodbath for Democrats in most states, Nevada was the rare example where they trounced Republicans. Clinton won the state narrowly, but Democrats had also flipped the state legislature, beat Republicans in three of the state’s four US House seats, and sent Catherine Cortez Masto, the first Latina senator, to Washington.

Sen. Catherine Cortez Masto delivers her victory speech at the Nevada Democrats’ election night watch party in Las Vegas on November 8, 2016, after defeating Republican Joe Heck. Bill Clark/CQ Roll Call

Democratic senators gathered in the election’s aftermath in Washington to grapple with the major losses the party had suffered, and Reid brought his closest aide, Rebecca Lambe (whom another former aide called “the best political operative in America”), to Capitol Hill to give the caucus a pep talk.

“Fundamentally, Rebecca used the Seattle Seahawks expression ‘defend every blade of grass,’” a former Reid aide who was at the meeting told Vox. “There’s no secret sauce; you just have to be relentless and work every day.”

Operatives and volunteers in the Nevada state Democratic Party operation aren’t just working in the months up to an election, they are at work all year round: showing up at doors, registering new voters, helping boost candidate’s name ID, and getting people to show up to early voting or go to the polls on Election Day.

“Vegas is largely apathetic to politics, it’s about getting folks disciplined enough to do the basic stuff,” said former Reid spokesperson Jim Manley.

They’ve had notable success: In 2010, Latino voters accounted for 12 percent of the state’s voters, and made up about 16 percent of the total number of voters who cast ballots for Reid in the Senate race, according to research firm Latino Decisions. This year, Democratic organizers want to see that vote share increase to 18 to 20 percent, according to Artie Blanco, a Democratic National Committee member and labor organizer in Nevada.

“There’s been consistent investment in the Latino population here. I think the community is figuring out they have a voice,” Blanco, who is Mexican-American, told Vox.

In a year when Democrats are counting on a backlash to Trump to spur Latinos and other minorities to the polls in Southern states like Texas, Georgia, Florida, and Arizona, organizers in Nevada are clear on one thing: You cannot expect a reaction to Trump to translate organically to votes. You have to go out there and get every vote yourself.

Jacky Rosen’s campaign schedule on a recent weekend made it clear she is running the Reid playbook — making a huge play for Latino, Hispanic, and other minority voters, groups that have been disproportionately affected by the Trump administration’s immigration policies.

Homemade flan with Jacky Rosen’s campaign logo at a Hispanic Heritage Celebration Kickoff in Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

Las Vegas is a city where Trump’s name is emblazoned on the skyline in gold lettering topping the Trump International Hotel Las Vegas. But the president’s disapproval rating has climbed from 39 percent to 50 percent in Nevada, per a Morning Consult poll tracker.

He does remain popular with the state’s Republican base. Trump recently went out to campaign for Heller, drawing a crowd of about 8,000.

Rosen began her day on the campaign trail with a roundtable with African-American entrepreneurs before attending a Hispanic heritage celebration (complete with homemade flan with her name on it — something she was very enthusiastic about), and the Fiesta Las Vegas festival, a huge celebration of the city’s Mexican-American population.

Rep. Jacky Rosen speaks with guests during a roundtable discussion with African American entrepreneurs in Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

Rosen takes a photo with voters and volunteers at a Hispanic Heritage Celebration Kickoff in Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

“I don’t have to tell anybody that Latinos are on the forefront of the fight,” she said at a recent event with Latino voters. “DREAMers, TPS recipients, families torn apart at the border.”

Unlike Nevada’s Democratic Sen. Catherine Cortez Masto, who is Latina, Rosen is not of the Latino community. She doesn’t speak Spanish — but then, neither did Reid. Rosen, the granddaughter of immigrants from Eastern Europe, frequently talks to the state’s immigrant community about deportation and family separation in relation to her own family story.

“I will tell you, my grandmother came to this country 100 years ago as a young widow,” Rosen said. “What if she came her now, would my uncle Phillip been torn away from her? Would my family be considered a mixed-status family?”

Trump’s rhetoric and action on immigrants has rankled many in the city, according to community activist Margarita Rebollal, who is from Puerto Rico. Rebollal said she hopes Trump’s recent tweets about the island’s death toll during Hurricane Maria spurs Vegas’s Puerto Rican population to the polls to vote against Heller and the GOP.

“I know it’s motivating me and close friends of mine,” Rebollal said.

One game changer in Nevada is the strong union presence that can organize voters. The Culinary Union, one of the state’s most active labor unions that represents workers in Vegas’s many hotels and restaurants, allows for workers to take a months-long leave of absence to volunteer knocking doors, registering voters, and handing out fliers.

Vox recently joined two Culinary Union members — Mary Anne Corre, a housekeeper at MGM Grand, and Alfonso Maciel, a cook at Excalibur — as they went out to knock on doors nearly two months before Election Day. Corre is Filipino and speaks Tagalog, and Maciel is Latino and speaks Spanish, which means they have most of the area’s language bases covered.

Clark County, which includes Las Vegas, is diversifying rapidly, with Latinos making up a little more than 30 percent of the population, followed by African Americans and a smaller percentage of Asian Americans and American Pacific Islanders.

A campaign poster Jacky Rosen signed for a young volunteer a campaign event. It reads, “Always stay true to who you are & you will be successful.” Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

Flipping Heller’s Senate seat is personal to both of them, but especially for Maciel, whose family members fear Trump’s crackdown on immigrants.

“My family has lived in fear of being deported or having family taken away, to the point where they were afraid to come out of their homes,” Maciel said. “Everyone knows someone impacted by immigration.”

Deportations are increasing in Las Vegas and Nevada as a whole, immigration advocates say. More people are being picked up by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and are at risk of being deported for such minor infractions as unpaid traffic tickets. More than 6,000 Salvadoran immigrants will likely face deportation in September 2019 after Trump ended temporary protected status (TPS) for them earlier this year. (Trump’s move was recently blocked by a federal judge.) Still, people who have been in the community for 15 years or more, own homes, and pay taxes have been impacted.

“Immigrants are completely under attack,” said Geoconda Arguello Kline, secretary treasurer of the Culinary Union. “We’re the largest immigration organization in Nevada. This election is a very, very important election for us, too.”

One of the reasons Latino voters showed up to vote for Harry Reid year after year is he followed through on his promises, according to those close to him. He understood that courting the Latino vote was more than just talking the talk — he had to play transactional politics with groups that typically don’t get that big of an advocate in Congress.

Facing reelection in 2010, the then-Senate majority leader made another risky political bet: He brought the DREAM Act — a bill that would allow young unauthorized immigrants known as DREAMers to eventually get US citizenship — up for a vote in the Senate. Reid did so against the advice of his own campaign advisers and pollsters, who warned this would turn white independent voters against him.

Former Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid meets with DREAMer and immigration activist Astrid Silva of Las Vegas in his Capitol office before a 2013 vote on an immigration reform bill in the Senate. Tom Williams/CQ Roll Call

“He was being told by his pollster that he should not touch the DREAM Act with a 10-foot poll,” said Jose Parra, who ran Latino communications for Reid’s campaign and his office. “He still went for that; he went hard on it. At a time when Hispanic voters were being attacked by his opponent, he had their backs.”

Reid also put together a bilingual college guide for Latino families, created a program to help people with foreclosures in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, and hired Latino staff.

“He had a huge hand in DACA as well; he twisted a lot of arms in the [Obama] administration to get DACA going,” Parra said.

The entirety of Reid’s legacy on immigration is complicated. In 1993, he introduced a bill that would have gotten rid of birthright citizenship for children of illegal immigrants born in the United States. Reid later referred to his bill as a “travesty” and the “low point” of his career, and became one of the few senators openly spearheading immigration reform when it was still “the third rail of Democratic politics,” according to Parra.

Still, he came around to taking the Latino vote seriously, so much so that he became a leading voice on the subject, even as the issue became more polarizing in his own party. And it helped boost him in a tough, 2010 Senate race against Republican Sharron Angle.

“Reid was right there from the beginning, before it was popular or considered safe,” Parra said. “That obviously turns people out. Good policy, when it’s messaged well, is good politics.”

North Las Vegas City Council member Isaac Barron introduces Rosen speaks at a Hispanic Heritage Celebration Kickoff in Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

As a freshman Congress member, Rosen doesn’t have much of a voting record to be judged on. But in January, she voted against a short-term government spending bill — a vote Heller is hammering her on in ads. House Republicans ultimately had enough votes to pass that spending bill without Democrats. It failed in the Senate over frustrations about the lack of action on an immigration bill and short-term funding of children’s health insurance and community health centers, pushing the government into a three-day shutdown.

“It’s not a good choice to pit kids who need children’s health insurance against other children like our DREAMers,” Rosen told Vox in a recent interview. “So that’s why we voted against it; it was a false choice. It’s something the Republicans put up there as a poison pill to force us to choose one group of children over another.”

Parra said Rosen taking a tough vote like that and siding with DREAMers sends a message to the state’s Latino community that she is serious about fighting for them. That’s an important contrast to draw, especially since Heller has recently voted against immigration reform and largely aligned himself with Trump after disavowing the president in 2016.

Rosen said she’s called Reid on a few occasions to offer comfort as he recovers from cancer treatment. Asked if she’s received any advice from the former Senate majority leader and political kingmaker (or queenmaker), she nodded: “Know who you are, stay true to yourself, stay true to your values, and be a straight shooter.”

Rosen greets a young singer at the Fiesta Las Vegas Festival at Craig Ranch Regional Park in North Las Vegas on September 15, 2018. Mikayla Whitmore for Vox

Original Source -> Harry Reid is still a Democratic kingmaker

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

0 notes

bigmacdaddio · 6 years ago

Text

Joe Biden eulogizes John McCain - August 30, 2018.

0 notes

newstfionline · 6 years ago

Text

The canceled North Korea summit and US foreign policy

By Ishaan Tharoor, Washington Post, May 25, 2018

On the Korean Peninsula, the day began with images of North Korea destroying one of its key nuclear testing facilities as a sign of supposed goodwill ahead of talks with the United States. It ended with President Trump blowing up the whole diplomatic process that brought us here.

The White House issued a letter addressed to North Korea’s “Dear Chairman” Kim Jong Un informing Pyongyang that the summit--“for the good of both parties, but to the detriment of the world”--was off.

The seeming incoherence between those consecutive clauses was followed by other bewildering statements in the letter, which was apparently dictated word-for-word by Trump to an aide. It included a schoolyard plug for America’s “so massive and powerful” nuclear arsenal, followed by praise for North Korea’s “beautiful gesture” in releasing American hostages and an incongruous suggestion to a sitting of head to state to “not hesitate to call me or write” should he change his mind.

The reasons for the cancellation are still filtering out, but there are two very different ways to interpret the White House’s decision. The first view, as a Washington Post editorial argued, is that it’s yet another instance of Trump’s impulsive instincts. It was his choice to prematurely announce the planned summit--to the surprise of his South Korean interlocutors--and then wildly play up its prospects even though experts doubted Kim would ever surrender his nuclear weapons and puzzled over Trump’s apparent lack of strategic foresight.

But a flurry of hostile statements from North Korea this week, and growing fears within the White House that the meeting in Singapore would not see any genuine progress toward North Korean “denuclearization,” started to shift Trump’s calculus.

“White House aides had grown concerned because North Korea had not responded to planning requests on the summit and had canceled a logistics meeting,” my colleagues reported. “Many details needed to be settled within days for the summit to happen, this official said, adding that the White House did not want an embarrassing situation of ‘losing the upper hand.’”

Critics would question what upper hand the United States has at this point. Trump’s decision completely blindsided the South Korean government, which has staked a great deal of its credibility on successfully working toward rapprochement with the North. “We are attempting to make sense of what, precisely, President Trump means,” said government spokesman Kim Eui-kyeom in Seoul. President Moon Jae-in said he was “very perplexed and sorry” over the turn of events.

So, too, are observers in Washington. “Never has such chaos attended the public behavior of a U.S. president on a matter of such gravity,” The Post editorial said. “Both Mr. Trump and the North Koreans alluded to the possibility of nuclear war.”

The second view is that the summit was bound to fail. A key figure here is Trump’s national security adviser, John Bolton, a noted hawk and skeptic of diplomacy with the North Koreans. For weeks ahead of the meeting, Bolton set impossible targets for the summit and posited a scenario where Pyonygang swiftly dismantled its nuclear program in the same vein as the Libyan regime of despot Moammar Gaddafi in 2003.

“Bolton appeared to be willing to settle for nothing other than Kim showing up to Singapore to turn over the keys to his nuclear program--which North Korea has recently taken to calling its ‘treasured sword’--to the United States,” explained Asia geopolitics expert Ankit Panda. “Bolton’s preferred model all this time has been the 2003 disarmament of Libya, which at the time had a nuclear-weapons program that was effectively in a primordial state and was dismantled by the United States.”

Of course, the “Libyan model” is an unwelcome analogy in Pyongyang, given how that story ended with the overthrow of the nuclear-free Gaddafi regime in 2011, and the brutal killing of its leader. “There are several land mines on the way to the summit between North Korea and the U.S.,” Chung Dong-young, a liberal South Korean politician, told my colleague Anna Fifield last week. “One of those land mines just exploded: John Bolton.”

Nevertheless, in the days that followed, both Trump and Vice President Pence invoked Libya in their remarks, with Trump explicitly (and rather confusingly) warning Kim that Gaddafi’s fate could be his should he not denuclearize. The intellectual “dysfunction within this administration in the lead-up to this meeting ultimately brought the summit crashing down,” concluded Panda.

So what did Trump gain from the gambit? For a president invested in the “art” of the deal, he rather theatrically got to walk away from one, while still securing the release of U.S. prisoners and leaving the door vaguely ajar for a future round of talks with Kim. (North Korea said it was willing to meet with Trump “at any time.”)

But he also opened the door for more chaos. Trump now has to patch up ties with South Korea and, to a lesser extent, Japan, two allies that will undoubtedly be wary of Trump’s future initiatives in the region. “Leaving the [Iranian] nuclear deal created a wedge with European allies,” tweeted Vali Nasr, a former senior adviser at the State Department. “Leaving the North Korea summit will draw a wedge with South Korea.”

And it likely plays into the hands of China, which has also been outmaneuvering Trump in a long-rumbling trade dispute.

Meanwhile, Trump undermined his new secretary of state, Mike Pompeo, who, starting while he was CIA director, made two secret trips to North Korea and shifted his initially hard-line stance to one championing engagement. “Pompeo could lose credibility, not just with Kim, but with any world leader who now can’t be sure he speaks for the president,” wrote my colleague Josh Rogin. “Pompeo himself must now pivot from his optimistic rhetoric about bringing North Korea into the 21st century and toe the more hawkish, Bolton line of pushing more sanctions all the time.”

What that means is a return to the old status quo, albeit one where the United States has less leverage. The absence of the summit may deprive Kim of a new platform to boost his international visibility and legitimacy, but he still has his nuclear weapons and has emerged in the past few months as a more emboldened figure, ending more than half a decade of seclusion with two trips to China. Trump’s stated campaign of “maximum pressure” on North Korea has weakened.

“Trump walking away from the summit lets North Korea meet all its objectives: public recognition, lighter sanctions, damage to U.S. alliances and continued nuclear advancement,” Adam Mount, a senior fellow at the Federation of American Scientists in Washington, told the New York Times.

What happens next is anyone’s guess. A humbled Trump administration could pursue more moderate goals, such as an agreement from Pyongyang not to carry out further missile or nuclear tests. But Trump could just as easily go back to his saber-rattling bluster of the previous year, while Kim resumes missile launches--returning the focus once more to the grim prospect of war.

#us-north korea summit #Trump foreign policy

0 notes

trendingnewsb · 7 years ago

Text

Drunk Husband Secretly Has an Affair with the “Other Woman”His Wifes Response Proves Love Doesnt Always Win. Surrender Does.

ShareTweet

I loved her. But it was not enough.

She caught my attention the first time I saw her. We were in college. I was 21. She was 18.

She was cute and I wanted to meet her.

Little did I know that our story was already being written.

I remember our first interaction and I am embarrassed to say that it wasn’t my most “GQ” moment. As she was leaving the mail room, I was walking in. The stars had aligned and this was the moment that I had been waiting for.

This was my moment! I am finally going to say hello to her! I get one shot at a first impression so I muster all the confidence I can and say…“Hi Shonda!”

I said it in my most energetic, yet “I hope you think I’m cool,” kind of voice.

This would have been great if her name was Shonda. Her name was not Shonda. Her name was SHAYLA.

Shonda was her older sister who attended the same college. Shonda was the older sister whose shadow cast over Shayla from the moment she stepped on campus. Shayla was known as Shonda’s little sister.

She responds back with this. “I am Shayla.” Like most 21-year-old boys, I was not the brightest, but I realized by her tone that the first impression I was so concerned with just got ruined.

I had one shot and the one shot missed the target by 10 yards. The one shot missed the rim and the backboard altogether. The one shot missed the green and ended up in the sand trap. The one shot was over. Or so I thought.

Our next interaction was at an intramural football game. Intramural sports at our college went like this: Testosterone filled boys got together to show off for the cute girls who came to watch. As we prepared to play a game of flag football in the wet grass and mud, I asked her (I said, Shayla, this time) to hold my hat. At the time, it was my favorite hat.

As I began to walk away with my chest puffed out because the cute girl was holding MY hat, she promptly dropped it in the mud.

I guess you could say that we were now even.

This is how our story began. Our first date was just a few short days later.

I began to love her. But it wasn’t going to be enough.

Our love story included an engagement and a small yet beautiful wedding.

But I didn’t love her enough to not get drunk the night before and be hungover for our wedding.

I loved her.

But it was not enough, to put her before my friends.

It wasn’t enough, to put her before my extended family.

It wasn’t enough, to put her before my job.

I loved her.

But it was not enough, to answer the phone call when I was out of town and she was concerned if I was still at the bar — or even worse — dead on the side of the road.

It wasn’t enough, to not lie to her about already being in my hotel room when in reality I was still out drinking, and only went to a quiet corner to call home and say goodnight.

It wasn’t enough, to be at home in a warm bed rather than schedule yet another fishing trip to sleep in one that was cold.

I loved her.

But it was not enough, to not email the other woman, or not flirt with the girl at the bar.

It wasn’t enough, to stop the anger at night when I would come home from a day-long drinking binge at the Royals game, and she would ask who won and I couldn’t remember.

It wasn’t enough, to not drive drunk when she begged me to call her to come pick me up.

I loved her.

But it was not enough, to not begin the affair with the other woman.

It wasn’t enough, to not give my attention to the other woman when my wife was longing for attention from me.

It wasn’t enough, to not make late-night calls to the other woman when I should have been calling home to my wife, who was by herself, and missing the husband she married.

I loved her. But it was not enough.

However, she loved me.

She loved me enough to continue to call on the late nights I wouldn’t answer.

It was enough to continue to care when most women would have stopped long before.

She loved me.

It was enough to keep my side of the bed warm, even though she knew I wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

It was enough to say this, the day she found out about my relationship with the other woman:

“Bryan, I will love you as a friend, but not as your wife, to help you get help.”

She loved me.

It was enough to walk beside me during the most difficult period of my life, as I began to uncover years and years of hurt that I had buried deep within my heart and soul.

It was enough to do all of this while we were separated, living in different houses.

She loved me.

It was enough to eliminate alcohol in her own life, so I could be healed from the addiction that I was facing.

It was enough to allow my hardened heart the time it needed to soften.

She loved me enough to forgive.

She loved me.

People say that love wins. I even said it a few weeks ago when I posted a picture to Instagram.

But does love actually win? I don’t think it does.

Surrender wins. Love follows surrender.

In the middle of my darkness, I made the decision to surrender. I had no other options if I was going to make it.

It wasn’t about my marriage. It was about whether or not I was going to make it another day as thoughts of suicide crept in.

Proverbs 4:19 But the way of the wicked is like deep darkness; they do not know what makes them stumble.

I was in so deep that I didn’t even know that I was in the dark.

Darkness is the absence of light.

Jesus says this.

John 8:12 I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.

Luke 9:23-24 Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will save it.

Both of these statements use the word whoever.

Whoever includes ME. Whoever includes YOU.

Both of these statements use the word follow.

To follow is to come after, to go behind…to surrender.

In order for me to love my wife the way that I was supposed to love her, I had to surrender my life to Jesus first and experience unconditional love from the One who created me.

In order for my wife to forgive me, she had to surrender her life to Jesus first.

In order for our lives to be saved and our marriage restored, we had to lose the lives that we were living. Oh, but we gained so much more.

Shayla, I am sorry for the pain I caused you. I am sorry that I hurt you. I am sorry that I did not love you enough. I am sorry.

Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for standing beside me. Thank you for loving me when you didn’t have to.

Thank you for loving me enough.

Shayla, you are simply remarkable. I will protect you. I will protect us. I will do whatever it takes. I love you.

To the one reading this who is in the middle of the darkness, there can be light. You can be healed. Your marriage can be restored. The pain can be overcome with beauty.

There is hope. Hope has a name. His name is Jesus.

My prayer is that you wrestle with what it means to surrender, and as a result, experience love…true love.

Surrender wins, love follows.

Bryan

A version of this piece was originally published on Anguished Hearts.

.IRPP_ruby , .IRPP_ruby .postImageUrl , .IRPP_ruby .centered-text-area{height:130px;position:relative}.IRPP_ruby,.IRPP_ruby:hover,.IRPP_ruby:visited,.IRPP_ruby:active{border:0!important}.IRPP_ruby .clearfix:after{content:"";display:table;clear:both}.IRPP_ruby{display:block;transition:background-color 250ms;webkit-transition:background-color 250ms;width:100%;opacity:1;transition:opacity 250ms;webkit-transition:opacity 250ms;background-color:#FFF;box-shadow:0 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.17);-moz-box-shadow:0 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.17);-o-box-shadow:0 1px 2px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.17);-webkit-box-shadow:0 1px 2px rgba(0,0,0,0.17)}.IRPP_ruby:active,.IRPP_ruby:hover{opacity:1;transition:opacity 250ms;webkit-transition:opacity 250ms;background-color:#eaeaea}.IRPP_ruby .postImageUrl{background-position:center;background-size:cover;float:left;margin:0;padding:0;width:31.59%}.IRPP_ruby .centered-text-area{float:right;width:65.65%;padding:0;margin:0}.IRPP_ruby .centered-text{display:table;height:130px;left:0;top:0;padding:0;margin:0}.IRPP_ruby .IRPP_ruby-content{display:table-cell;margin:0;padding:0 74px 0 0px;position:relative;vertical-align:middle;width:100%}.IRPP_ruby .ctaText{border-bottom:0 solid #fff;color:#3498DB;font-size:13px;font-weight:bold;letter-spacing: .125em;margin:0;padding:0}.IRPP_ruby .postTitle{color:#000;font-size:16px;font-weight:600;margin:0;padding:0}.IRPP_ruby .ctaButton{background:url(https://faithit-eszuskq0bptlfh8awbb.stackpathdns.com/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts-pro/assets/images/next-arrow.png)no-repeat;display:inline-block;height:130px;width:54px}.IRPP_ruby .ctaButton{background-color:#3498DB;margin-left:10px;position:absolute;right:0;top:0}.IRPP_ruby:after{content:"";display:block;clear:both}