#and then instead of my brain telling me 'youre secretly racist' it just told me 'youre transitioning into being a nazi'

[no-more-rqs]

transharmful is wrong

[thebibliomancer]

Dark Crystal Age of Resistance ep 4 liveblog

“The First Thing I Remember is Fire”

Just a stream of thoughts.

Dammit the logo caught on fire. This is why they didn’t want open flames on the sets!

Gelfling are just super racist against Podlings.

A Guard: “Shut up, you’ll give everyone nightmares with that wailing!”

Hup: -sings louder, out of spite-

Sooooooooo Deet has decided to be a cryptid.

For Gelfling are a superstitious and cowardly lot. 

Flew around wailing and screeching until A Guard and B Guard took off in a frighten and then rescued Hup.

“Thra’s true balance will be found when natural order is sound.”

Dark Crystal loves its weird, random prophecies. But they’ve got nothing on Redwall.

-Brea, breaks the secret door- 

Why is there a secret room at the end of the secret passage under a secret door in the throne secretly that has the symbols of the seven clans?

Brea: “Oh, its a puzzle!”

Hey, yeah, this is coming off a little Legend of Zelda…

“I have to put the clans in their natural order, from highest to lowest, and then Thra will be in balance” =| ffs brea

You done learned a classism, growing up.

Dammit puzzle room, don’t reward her for classism! Orrr racism?

Brea is having a hard time ranking the clans once she gets past the ‘well obviously the Vapra are the best’

Wow, good job, modern puppeteers. You’ve made the Skeksis eating even grosser. And in the original movie it was a sort of cathartic trash the set sort of scene.

Wow, very gross.

Oh, this specific gross banquet is in honor of the Ornamentalist. So of course everyone spends the entire time whining about how food is like ash in their mouths compared to drinking soul goo.

Soul goo is crackier than crack. One sip and the Skeksis are all super hooked on it and already jonesing for another hit.

And the Ornamentalist is just annoyed.

Ornamentalist: “Essence, essence, essence! That’s all any of you talk about since I returned. It’s my party. Talk about me!”

Of course, the Ornamentalist would gladly try a hit but there’s none left.

Awww, they didn't invite Scientist to the party. They locked him in his lab until he finishes his mad science chores.

All the Skeksis are talking about wiping out the entire Gelfling population and Chamberlain is the only one thats not stupid about the horrific act of eating souls to maintain youth.

Chamberlain: “A wise shepherd does not cull entire herd, yes? We should take only what Gelfling we need to survive!”

Gourmand: “Moderation is for the meek!”

I again wonder how these dinguses managed to rule the planet for a thousand years without using it all up.

Chamberlain just called the General a coward. And the other Skeksis are just going FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

General: “I welcome war!”

Chamberlain: “Because you are too thick-headed to use brain!”

General: -affronted gasp-

And the Emperor is too busy PULLING HIS FINGER OFF to pay much attention

Gross. You’re getting pus… everything was already disgusting and you’ve found the way to make it worse, Emperor

So he wants instant results and starts yelling at the Chamberlain who can just shrink down and go ‘he started it’

Aww Emperor just dumped Chamberlain as his favorite counselor and his new bff is the general

Woow the general wasn’t kidding. The instant Chamberlain doesn’t have the Emperor’s favor, the General smacks Chamberlain to the floor and stomps on his hand.

I almost feel bad for him.

And now several minutes of Aughra complaining about how old she is and yelling at the ground to shut up until someone shoots plot arrows around her.

And the Emperor rolls into the lab to mock the Scientist for having no friends. Wow.

So the Scientist finished repairing the soul suck machine, with the bondage chair upgrade like in the movie.

Emperor: “How many Gelfling must we drain to cheat death for all eternity?”

Scientist: ‘thats fucked up, dude’

Or more seriously, the Scientist is actually worried about the Darkening and worries that draining Gelfling will cause it to spread faster.

But the Emperor is a global decaying denier and tells Scientist to tell him what he wants to hear.

Or he’ll kill his pet lab animals. Which the Scientist actually seems to like. I mean the animals, not the choking of them.

Scientist: “Fifty Gelfling, every trine!” I’m split between thinking ‘wow thats awful’ and ‘wow thats sustainable’

Chamberlain is feeling sad because Emperor doesn’t love him most anymore so he’s blowing an ominous horn.

Oh, another new Skeksis! SkekMal, the Hunter!

And all the other Skeksis are like ‘aw fuck not that guy’

Its interesting to think that from how much all the Skeksis seem to despise each other, thats actually them getting along and liking each other, and there are other Skeksis that they just don’t like at all.

WOW SKEKMAL LOOKS SPOOKY

THE GROUND IS ANGRY

THE SKY IS ANGRY!

WHY IS EVERYTHING ANGRY

Oh theres Aughra, of course she’s angry. She’s angry or peeved or irritated or disgruntled.

Aughra: “I will go no further!” -many plot arrows- “... I will go a bit further.”

I hadn’t gotten a good view yet but Aughra has a cool cape.

Oh hey, a new UrRu! This day brings a bounty. He’s the Archer who has been shooting arrows adjacent to Aughra.

Archer: “Thra still sings”

Aughra: “Then why don’t I hear it?”

Archer: “Because you turned your eye away from Thra and towards the stars.”

Hearing that from the Skeksis is just audacious but hearing it from an UrRu makes it hurt.

Aughra: “I trusted the Skeksis to look after Thra! I took their word!”

Archer: “And their gifts”

GET DUNKED ONNNNNN i guess.

Having four arms must help with archery. But apparently having arthritis in all of those arms doesn’t.

Archer shoots arrow straight up into the air and has it land right at her feet. And vanishes while she’s watching it go.

Aughra: “You could have just said this! Clearly, succinctly! Without all the walking!”

Archer is the troll UrRu

Ohhh, I bet Archer and Hunter are counterparts. BECAUSE THEY’RE BOTH BATMAN

Archer does the vanishing when he feels the conversation is ended part and Hunter appears out of nowhere to give Chamberlain a frighten.

Hunter: “What is the prey?”

Chamberlain: “A Gelfling”

Hunter: “Nope. Bye.”

But Chamberlain talks him into it anyway because talking people into things is what Chamberlain does.

Although first he tries to make the Hunter feel sorry for his, the Chamberlain’s, reverse in fortunes by whining that the General hurt his hand but the Hunter just. Doesn’t. Care. About castle politics. He wouldn’t be out in the night being batman if he did.

But Chamberlain does manage to somehow convince him that Rian is worthy prey.

Now the General is charge of Gurjin’s interrogation and he immediately cattle prods him several times and straps him into the soul suck machine. Welp.

Gurjin, you’re wonderfully defiant and snarky.

General: “I will ask you once again, WHERE IS THE FUGITIVE RIAN?”

Gurjin, having just been partially soul sucked: “Have you checked the Great Smerth? It’s particularly lovely in spring.”

The Emperor rolls in and its like dad came home and caught the boys misbehaving.

Scientist: “I told him not to do it!”

General: “I… I was just introducing myself to the Gelfling!”

Emperor: =__=

OH MY GOD BREA HAS JUST BEEN TRYING TO BRUTE FORCE THE PUZZLE THIS ENTIRE TIME

She’s just been trying different combinations and writing down what doesn’t work.

Brea: “‘Thra’s true balance will be found when the natural order is sound’… but there is no natural order because no clan is above any of the others! It isn’t a puzzle! It’s a lie!”

Good job overcoming your prejudices, Brea!

Also, apparently refusing to rank the clans was the correct answer. This puzzle room is smart.

Hey what. Hey um what. There’s this stone dinosaur now what.

Its kind of cute.

YODA????

IS THAT YODA???

So the rock creature is named Lore and it has like… rock grooved cylinders and a rock phonograph pick and like a recorded Yoda voice that drops exposition 

Yoda: “Lore has imprinted on you. He is now your guardian and will protect you on your journey to the Circle of the SUns. There you will find the key to free Gelfing from Skeksis power forever.”

Oh.

Wait, who put this here? If the All-Maudra is NOW deeply in the Skeksis’ pockets then who and when put a secret room under her throne? And who knew enough to put a rock puppy in a secret room with a prerecorded message that the Skeksis were up to nooooo good. If someone knew all along that the Skeksis were jerks, why bury a message about it instead of doing something?

And then Seladon shows up and is like “THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE”

I’m not sure what the Gelfling guards were going to do to a rock monster with little spears anyway.

And now Rian has wandered into the Podling village. Hopefully he manages to be less racist than everyone else (except Deet) that interacts with them.

Wait, is that Rian? Then who is the other hooded gelfling and why are there ominous scare strings?

Podlings just love to party. They’re the Michelangelo of Thra’s races.

-Podling picks up entire keg and sprays it into another Podling’s mouth-

Rian gets a free drink because an old lady Podling wants to flirt at him across the room.

But his heart is too tender after losing the love of his life and I’m sure he won’t have room for a new love anytime soon.

Gurjin’s sister is hardcore. Shows up and puts Rian at knifepoint to ransom him off to get Gurjin back.

Oh and Cool Sister Tavra also shows up to also try to capture Rian for murdering a member of the Vapra (which he didn’t).

Oh Cool Sister Tavra, why’d you have to be racist at the Drunchens?

Rian: “Will someone just please fucking dreamfast with me so we can resolve this damn plot?”

Entirely new character Kylan: “Yeah I’m game” “The Skeksis may rule the land, but they do not rule my heart.”

Damn, entirely new character Kylan, you’re dope.

Tavra also decides that if entirely new character Kylan is going to do it, then she’s going to do it too.

And Gurjin’s sister gets peer pressured into doing it too.

FINALLY dreamfasting does what it was designed to do and shortcut past doubt and suspicion so we can get on with it.

Oh hey, Rian’s dad wanders in (geez Rian is bad at hiding if everyone found him at the same time) and also gets in on this dreamfast.

It feels a little weirder though because he gets in when it was already ongoing and its like weird because everyone else consented to the dreamfast and he just invited himself in.

But hey it lets Rian make up with his dad so, sure.

Dreamfasting also apparently can create- oh dreametching. Yeah they did mention that could happen.

So now Rian, entirely new character Kylan, and Dadrian are going to the All-Maudra to get her to rally the Gelflings against the Skeksis.

And Gurjin’s sister Naia and Tavra are going to the castle to free Gurjin.

I caaaaan’t help but feeeeeel that if Tavra went with Rian’s group they’d be able to convince the All-Maudra more easily but surrrrrrrrrre do whateverrrrrr

Unless you get captured and killed, Tavra and Naia. I’d be disgruntled at that.

Its kind of weird you have this group of plucky youths and also Rian’s dad who is like the wizened old man compared to them.

Wait, where IS Kylan? Did he go with the castle group after all?

Wait, shouldn’t Rian dad go on the castle mission since he’s the boss guard? And would make it easier for them  to-

Oh, I see. He has to be killed by the Hunter to show how serious the situation is.

Sorry, RIan’s dad. You’re the sacrificial lamb.

I mean, it hasn’t happened yet, but I bet it will-

OH HI DEET!

Deet and Rian just barely cross each other’s paths again. Its a small world after all.

Rian: “Do you remember [father-son bonding activity]?”

Rian Dad: “Ahhh I see how that memory we both share would be useful here.”

HOLY SHIT the Hunter can book. All the other Skeksis are like lumbering around and feeling old and he’s jumping in trees. Maybe fresh air IS good for you.

And he’s a puppet or a costume or a costume puppet so holy shit.

Rian tries to sword fight the Hunter but like…. The weight advantage is very much the Hunter’s. He’s just easily pushing the Gelfling around

HOLY SHIT HIS TWO EXTRA ARMS AREN'T ATROPHIED HE’S SKEKSIS GENERAL GRIEVOUS

Hunter: “You have heart…. I’ll take that too.”

Oh no I was wrong! Rian Dad wasn’t the sacrificial lamb! He was the heroic sacrifice!

He tackled the Hunter into a pit of angry earth and the Hunter seems pretty okay with that as long as he takes someone with him. What an enigmatic guy.

Oh. never mind. Hunter is still alive. He’s too angry and spry for the ground to eat.

I was about to say what a shame it was to introduce the guy and immediately get him eaten by the ground.

And also Riandad’s sacrifice was pointless because the Hunter immediately captures Rian and absconds with him.

Deet and Hup must be very confused coming into this plot branch with no context.

[not-a-statement]

Chasing ghosts. Chapter 1

I’m finally posting the first chapter.

Forgive me for my grammar, like I said I'm not a native speaker, but I hope you'll find it at least readable.

As always big thanks to @edward-or-ford for all his help and guidance

I’ll soon figure out how to create a master post, but just for now I’ll leave a link to a prologue (if you haven’t read it) here

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter

New City, NY, August 31st 2024

Dipper set aside the empty glass and glanced around at the merry people gathered to celebrate the Pines twins’ birthday. There were friends, a couple of relatives, colleagues. Mostly the Zach Turner’s colleagues: Dipper himself did not have personal contact with many people every day. A freelance journalist is called freelance for a reason. But if you are a stockbroker, even a beginner, then you might be in this kind of crowd. All of them fit, most of them tanned (probably from a solarium), wearing fancy Trussardi polos, a full set in order to impress you. To make you believe that you are looking at a wealthy confident man who knows no worries and ready tackle any money issues.

No, It’s not that Dipper could blame them, it's just their job to look successful and reliable. But from all this dazzling crowd hanging out in the backyard of the house he began to feel a ruffling sensation in his eyes. As if somebody poured a bucket of transparent glue on each of them and after they were shot with a sequins canon or whatever. It’s just seemed that each movement of these people somehow refracted the rays of sunlight at such an angle to hit Dipper directly in the eyes with a piercing beam. But anyway, Mabel was probably over-delighted with this kind display. Somehow it became a sort of tradition for the past ten years: what was painful for Dipper was pretty joyfull for Mabel.

Pines mentally kicked himself for that last thought. It sounded terrible, even if he didn’t say it out loud. And it sounded even worse coming from the thoughts of a loving brother.

Hah, a loving ... brother. It's odd even to put these two words in one sentence…

Another mental kick. Don’t you even dare to think about your feelings for your own sister, not now. Better to not ever.

Disgusting thoughts.

Wrong feelings.

Bad brain. Very bad and being an ass right now. We need to focus on what is important: today's birthday. Stan could get to us from his backwoods. Dad and Mom are also going to visit in a couple of days, when they return from the next trip around the country. They are probably happy with their new life without the constant care of children, busy only with each other and with their dreams.

Everyone was happy. Why couldn’t Dipper at least relax a little and pretend that he enjoyed this noise, instead of constantly thinking about escape paths from this house filled with smiling mannequins and idle talk? From the house where every piece of furniture, every spoon from the gift set and every word uttered by its inhabitants would forever remind Dipper of what he lost, and more than that, what he could never get. It was taken away from him by this slender hard-built bastard with a radiant smile from ear to ear and the sweetest speeches that he poured in huge doses into the ears of everyone around him. All these manners, courtesy. Damn, was it really only Dipper that was sick of this man-made likeness? Did no one else see his essence? Why did no one else see him as the dirty bastard he was? And why was Mabel, sweet smart Mabel, so blinded by all his fake ... this fake ... facade?

Dipper let out a deep sigh and reached for the glass again.

You know what? Forget it. You once again begin to come up with wild ideas and seeing things. Not every man hovers around Mabel actually turns out to be a psychopath, a juvenile maniac or a bunch of wild Fae creatures.

Yes, but I was right then!

Because then you tried to protect your sister, not the girl you are in love with.

As if there is any difference.

Newsflash. Of course there is. Want an example? Okay second year at college, the black guy what’s-his-face? Always found an excuse to hang in your dorm room with Mabel. You do remember him, right? And how long did it take your eye to recover from swelling.

Hey, it's not my fault that he got into a fight.

It happens when you get a lot of suspicious glares.

There weren’t so many of them ...

Dude, he still probably thinks you are a racist or something.

The rumble of a bourbon being filled in a glass was almost a lullaby. Dipper did not even notice how he filled the vessel almost to the brim.

Well, that was great: he was talking to himself now! Not that it was the first time. He often arranged internal disputes on this or that topic, clashing his rational part with itself or with the sensual, but never before his emotional side sounded so offended and pitiful.

Dipper frowned, sipping an amber drink, which burned his tongue and throat, but at the same time it became a little easier to consider everything that was happening and himself in it. With this ease, eyelids grew heavy, thoughts became slower - only the footage of the last six months of his life began to flash before his eyes.

If it could be called that. A life ...

Life is something sensible, controlled in the most of things. With no comprehensible forecast, only with assumptions - and that's enough, believe me.

And this kind of floating in the time-space with rare interactions with random objects floating there as well could hardly be called a life. It's like flying on autopilot without a specific purpose. And even you can not enjoy a journey in spite of what they say. A kind of asteroid in the cold space.

Or more like....

Perhaps it's ... like a satellite? Yes, a satellite that spends its entire life quietly orbiting its planet - a circle after a circle, year after year. It's boring, but you can adapt, especially if you do not think about why you get in this orbit and what happened before. If you do not replay in your mind moments from the past when at the age of fifteen you started to notice things that should not have been noticed, when your sweating hands, weak legs and lack of words turned the simplest conversation into an attraction of strangeness and awkwardness. If you do not replay memories of prom night over and over again in your head, which you found an excuse not to go to having no date to bring along, and your sister spent the whole night accompanied by that tall blond guy from her Spanish class and returned only the morning after. Or how you secretly threw out letters from the MIT that was ready to tear you away from the opportunity to choose a college in the same city as Mabel did.

Collect all these pieces together, and here you are - Dipper Pines - a proud mayor of the city called "What am I doing with my life?". Population: one person.

No, not like that.

And you are ready to go out into the streets and tear leaflets to passers-by with an invitation to the seminar "Are you too happy with your life? I will tell you how to get rid of this feeling. Every Sunday at a local community center. BYOB"

Yes, that's better. I can at least raise a little money.

Wait, what am I talking about? I need to open my eyes ...

A little more ... a little more ...

Oh, No! Bad idea!

Too light! Too light and too many people!

Oh... damn it …

Hmm ... although what am I? This was like it before I fell into my thoughts.

And yes - I'm still here. In the backyard of this hellhole, where Turner dragged my May ... um ... my ... my sister in his clawed paws. And from this hell I will never get her out of.

Dipper opened his eyes a little wider and looked at Zach's two-story house with complete disdain. Painted in a sky blue color, with windows washed up to the illusion of their absence and a neat backyard with garden gnomes, miniature paths lined with wooden footbridges, solar-powered lanterns and a low fence separating this site from the neighboring ones, it fit perfectly into a quiet family scenery, which New City of himself represented. This house came in no comparison with a small apartment in Brooklyn, where the twins has lived for almost a year after moving to New York. The apartment, which was a witness of moments of happiness and sadness, where the TV sometimes wasn’t turn off til morning because of the another marathon of cheesy horror movies, which housed the whole world of two closest friends, who loved each other sincerely and unselfishly. And which kept the secrets of one of them about where in its sincerity and disinterestedness there were footnotes in small print.

At the age of sixteen, Dipper told himself that only time was needed and that everything would end, everything would pass.

Now that’s a funny statement. Like a film or a book with an open ending, it gives a choice. For example, how long will it take or what will end? How many more will a small gray spinning top spin before shaking and gradually slowing its course until it stops? And will it stop at all?

Well, anyway, Dipper learned one thing - nothing can depend only on his will and obey the dry logic and, therefore, control. At the age of eighteen, he began to feel how gradually the situation began to develop according to his own scenario, regardless of his efforts to manage it. At twenty-two he could hardly find an explanation for his actions and decisions, and six months ago …

Six months ago, the satellite nevertheless descended from orbit and began its journey through the cold dark and empty nothingness. Six months ago, time had finally passed and everything was over.

On that day he walked from the editorial office with a new assignment. It was Friday, there was nowhere to hurry, although on the streets of New York even if you do not want to you have to merge with the eternally rushing crowd. There was a smell of spring in the air, and no matter how cliched this phrase was, damn it, it was true. Even Dipper felt something like that. Light and warm whiff. For the short time that he walked from the editorial office, the world around acquired more color, more smells - not literally, New York, with its busy streets, always supplied smells even above normal. Everything around seemed to come to life, blossoming in all its glory.

Not surprisingly, Mabel was always so happy about the arrival of spring, wherever we were. Maybe I should learn from her? Observe her today while taking a walk in Central Park - why the guy can’t invite his sister to take a walk in Central Park? Also, it’s now so beautiful there - bare trees are just beginning to be covered with the first signs of foliage, old men and women and young lovers are walking slowly along the paths of the park, contemplating what’s happening around them ...

It is possible to pretend that there is no hidden sadness that there is no emptiness inside. You can just move your legs, do not think about anything and absorb the sensations. And all this next to the most beloved person in the whole world …

Immersed in these thoughts and not particularly paying attention to scurrying hurried to and fro people around him, Dipper did not notice how a lazy and pacified smile began to creep across his face.

At least today life is good!

Mabel was waiting for him in the Ferrara bakery on Grand Street, where she was heading after another interview. It turns out that it's not so easy to find a job in New York for a mobile designer, but Mabel was not one of those people who despairs even after four months of searching. Although it seemed to Dipper that her enthusiasm was already at an end, and only by some miracle she still finds the strength to get up in the morning. He wanted to cheer her up, somehow raise her spirits, even if she does not admit that she is sad. Show that he is near, that he was always and will be there.

He planned everything: meet Mabel after work, a walk in Central Park, pizza for dinner and several pre-prepared playlists to choose from - romantic comedies, musicals, horror films and detectives. When they were sixteen, they could spend the whole night before the TV screen watching this kind of marathon of films. It's clear, they are older now and they have work and responsibilities, but, hey - today is Friday.

Simple and sincere. Only two of them, together.

It sounds like a date. Something like that…

From Worcester Street, on which stood the editorial building, it was ten minutes to go to the venue. Turn to Grand Street and go east, bypassing Green, Mercer, Broadway, Crosby, Lafayette, Center, Baxter and Mulberry Street. Piece of cake.

Despite the fact that after the turn the only thing that he had to do was to be on the straight line all the time, Dipper repeatedly checked the route in Google maps to make sure that he does not get lost and will be in place on time. Yes, it sounds odd, but New York is a big city, and it needs to be able to navigate. He didn’t want to repeat the story when Mabel mistakenly left for Jersey City and Dipper had to explain to her how to send her geolocation message to find it and pick her up.

Although now, probably, Dipper with all the desire could not not find the place where his sister was waiting. Huge signboards to the owners of the establishment seemed to be not enough, so they hoisted a giant plastic cones with a multicolored ice cream on both sides of the entrance, put a showcase with sweets on the street, and on the visor above the entrance for some reason they’ve put an old red baker's truck or something like that. Only the red carpet leading inside was missing. Oh, no, here it is …

Mabel sat in the far corner at a table for two. Before her stood a half empty mug of latte (obviously with a syrup of bubble gum, how can one drink it at all?) And a barely touched strawberry cheesecake. A slight dreamy smile played on her lips, a look through half-open eyelids was directed against the wall opposite her, the cheek is propped up by the palm, and the head is slightly tilted. Oh, so might it be that today she was at luck?

And how did it always happen that in any situation, in any position and with any expression of her face, Mabel was more beautiful than all the girls, that he’s ever seen in his life?..

"Hi, sis," Dipper said with a smile. "How was today?"

Whatever Mabel dreamed of, she was deep in her thoughts, because only the creak of the chair being moved in front of her and the appearance of her brother in her field of vision could bring her back to reality.

"Oh, hello, Dip," she chirped smiling wider. "I didn’t expect you so early."

“What?” Dipper was slightly taken aback. “I thought that I was even five minutes late ... wait, is this sarcasm? ...”

"No, no," Mabel said, quickly removing her elbow from the table and tucking the hair into her ear. She scanned the bakery, as if not quite understanding where she was.

“What time is it now?”

"Um, seven o'clock, just the time we agreed to meet”

"Oh, already?" Mabel lowered her eyes slightly and began fiddling with the tips of her hair.

"The time flew by so quickly," she added in a half whisper. Her cheeks glowed softly.

“Yes, already”  something suspicious was in the behavior of the sister. But put it off, Pines. You were going to offer something.

"Well, how did it go this time? Everything’s worked out? Looking forward to the call?”

"Or I can call first," Mabel playfully giggled.

“Mmm? Can you call them first for what?”

Mabel raised her eyes to her brother, in which a certain perplexity was read. For another couple of seconds, the sweet mist of dreams in her gaze dissipated until something clicked in her head, and she finally realized what Dipper was talking about.

"Ah, yes," she did her jazz hands "an interview. Well, it seems that next month you’ll still have to pay for the apartment. "She sighed and took a mug of coffee with both hands, lowering her head," again ... "

"Hey, hey," Dipper reached out and covered Mabel's arm, "it's all right. It's not important, the main thing is that you find a place where you’ll be appreciated and where it’ll be interesting for you to work and manifest yourself. You're the most creative person in this world. Heck, they're just idiots, if they didn’t take you right away!”

Mabel looked into Dipper's eyes and sadly, but sincerely smiled.

"I'll help you with what I can and will be around," Dipper smiled back.

God, how beautiful she is. There were so many guys in high school who liked her that the fingers of Ford's hands would not be enough to count them. True, none of those who had the luck to be with her, did not last more than two or three weeks, because none of them saw that behind the beauty of her there is also a very sharp mind. The whole universe with its rules and colors was stored in this charming fair-haired head. But none of them seemed to notice this.

Unlike Dipper.

Mabel embodied all the things that he lacked so much: freedom, creativity, infinite energy. Without it, he would not be a whole person. No one would have him learn to enjoy life and look at the world from a different angle, different from the position of dry logic.

"Thank you, bro bro," Mabel said quietly. "It means a lot to me, really”

"Any time, May," Dipper snapped his hand away and looked at his watch. "We still have plenty of time until the sun sets. It's about 20 minutes by metro to the Central Park, so I thought that we could wind up our heads a little. What do you say? You didn’t have any plans for tonight, did you?”

Mabel looked away and blushed profusely, covering her mouth with her palm and softly giggling.

Oh no. No no no! He screwed up, did he? He said it as if he was inviting her on a date. Oh, damn, oh, damn it! He rehearsed this phrase so much that it sounded like a simple friendly proposal in order to funk up anyway ?! She knows, she knows for sure, and now this situation will become even more awkward.

Set the panic aside! I need to figure out how to get out of this. Just laugh it off or try to explain what he meant.

Shit, why his palms are so sweaty? Is he in the eighth grade again?

“It sounds tempting, Dip. I’d really like to take a walk now …”

Oh, my God, phew. Everything is fine.

"... but, you see ..."

But? What’s for but? But what?

"... I really don’t know how it happened ... it seems that I have a date tonight!" Mabel finished her phrase. Her eyes were just glowing with happiness. The smile was broader and more dreamy than before, which made Dipper feel cold in the lower abdomen.

“I really didn’t know that this is the case in real life, but when I was walking from Five Points here ... i mean, our eyes just met, and I realized that he’d come up to me and ask me some question or say something... I just don’t understand how you constantly experience such stress every time you try to talk to a girl, this has never happened to me ...”

But Dipper wasn’t listening anymore. Only now he finally noticed all the details surrounding them. Strawberry cheesecake - when was the last time Mabel allowed herself something sweet in the city? Of course, they were not so poor, but given the fact that Mabel still did not have a permanent job, she tried to save money and not squander the money of her brother over trifles. So it was a treat. Then, how did Dipper not notice the empty espresso cup standing on his side of the table? He was too busy contemplating his sister to draw attention to this and to the fact that Mabel was constantly fiddling a napkin in her hand, on which was visible the pen-written sequence of numbers and one word.

Zach.

He left her his phone number. Who does this now? What kind of moron should one be to do this, instead of just dictating a number to be recorded in the phone?

That invisible, light breath that warmed Dipper so far from the moment he left the editorial office was instantly replaced by an importunate cold draft, from which all the muscles of his face grew cold and numb, turning nis face into a fixed mask that did not express any emotion. The bright March evening began to be replaced by a dark emptiness.

And Mabel kept talking and talking. She was extremely excited by what was happening: so many emotions, so many assumptions and hopes. As many as many times the only one phrase sounded in Dipper's head:

It happened again …

Sooner or later, it should have happened, but why today? On the day when he finally felt a barely perceptible wave of happiness?

Sometimes it seems that the universe itself is against you. Whether you achieve something desirable say some fun and joy come to life - bam! Sign here, please.

On the one hand, you can, of course, decide that this is "designed" so, that it’s fate and junk, that everything is natural and the time has come. The time for whatever - for example, the time to give up.

On the other hand, one can regard this same "bam" from the Universe as an appeal not to relax and to act further, to become better, to grow and all that.

You can, of course, just not react at all.

It depends.

A lot of dependencies happens to be all around us. Someone sits for hours with a guitar, learns to play the way his or hers favorite performers do, someone shoves career needle into his or hers veins, someone’s obsessed with science - yes, there are plenty of examples.

And love is something you can depend on too.

It’s even addictive.

And for someone who already has a strong addiction, something smoother will ... be like ...

Damn ... words ... how to make them into sentences? ..

So, enough for today's memories.

And speaking about strong and smooth ... I need another drink.

The glass stood on the table right here. Where is it ... hey?

Hey!

What the...?

"You tell me. That's enough for you, kid."

Kid? Oh he didn’t...

Dipper opened his eyes, trying to make out the speaker with him. It would have been better if it was anyone, but Zach.

"I think you might have the wrong glass, buddy," he croaked, trying to focus on the figure of the man next to him holding a vessel with amber corn liquid.

“Oh yeah? And didn’t you have the wrong party, knucklehead? The last thing I want to see right now is how my nephew gets drunk as hell at his birthday party”

Wait…

Stan? ..

“No, Pope John Paul II. Who do you think?”

In a second, Dipper's eyes flew open, and consciousness returned to online mode. Was he talking all this time out loud?

“I ... um” Dipper uncomfortably fidgeting on the chair, adjusting the edges of the shirt that was pulled up and briskly brushing his hair with fingers.

"Stan ... how long ... are you sitting here?"

"What? You wanna know how much of that nonsense that you muttered I heard? Don’t worry, your secrets will die with me.”

Oh no…

Dipper swallowed nervously and nodded uncertainly, looking before him. Stan responded with a laugh and added, changing his tone from more strict to good-natured:

"It's a joke, kid," he lifted his massive hand onto his nephew's shoulder, "there's nothing for me to blackmail you. This time.”

If they were in another place and under different circumstances, Dipper would have laughed along with his Gruncle. Now he did not even try, because together with laughter it would have turned out to be some silly awkward likeness.

"And yet, what made you to portray that guy ... Kain Rivers? Give you a piece of cake in the hand, and there’ll be complete similarity.”

"You mean Keanu Reeves?"

“Him, too.”

Dipper sighed and lowered his head, covered his face with his hands. Stan, having sipped a little bourbon from the glass, put his hand on his shoulder again.

“Seriously, Dip, what's wrong?” he added worried.

“Nothing, I'm fine” telling lies to a man who has proved over many years that he is the most understanding and caring member of the family left a disgusting taste on the tip of his tongue. If someone than it would be Stan to always be able to hear out and help. He would lay down his bones for the well-being of his family. Maybe he can at least somehow pour out his soul? ..

“What did you feel when Gruncle Ford disappeared in the portal? What’s it like to understand that your closest friend’s gone forever?”

Stan also sighed, setting aside his glass, and turned to face Dipper.

“Listen. You and Mabel, as long as I can remember, have always been together. You grew up, studied, moved to another cities. As I said, you rarely see such a relationship between a brother and a sister. But sooner or later, both of you should have had other companions of life. This is normal - it’s so arranged in the world. People get married, have families, children, invite each other to their dinners, go to work, dig in the garden in the backyard. It’s not the same as getting lost in another dimension for thirty years. Mabel just got married, she didn’t disappear from your life. Yes, now you’ll be separated not by the walls of the rooms, but by a good one and a half hour drive, but ... I’m not a good speaker... anyway,” - he drank some more whiskey.

"You two are better than we were with my brother. I'm telling you this, Ford claimed it until his last breath - believe me. Even if you were separated by space and time, you’d find a way to find yourselves... I mean to find each other. Do you understand what I mean?”

Dipper looked at the old man. In Stan's glance, God bless his heart, confidence and love were read. As always. And although he did not come even a bit close to understanding what was going on in Dipper's heart, his words still warmed.

"Yes, I do, Gruncle," Dipper smiled slightly. "Thank you."

"Well, it takes more than a simple thanks to be stuffed" Stan laughed and rose from his seat, leaning on the cane, "if you knew what they feed you on the plane, you’d understand what I mean. Next time I fly business class, and you pay. I spotted like a table with snacks inside, it's time to visit it.”

With these words he headed toward the house, stepping unsteadily and constantly leaning on his cane. Dipper saluted him in the style of Lando Calrissian and frowned. It was not fair  to upset Stan today with talk like that. So much of a burden was falling on his shoulders lately, and then there's just a glimpse of joy. Still, not every day his grand-niece marries.

It's a pity that Ford did not live to see this day. I definitely need to take a couple of  days off and go to Oregon. Stan becomes too weak to regularly care for the grave.

“Dipper! Bro-bro!”

Oh no.

Dipper pulled a smile on his face and turned to the source of the sound. There she was, flying to him in a light purple summer dress with a white collar.

"Silly drunken little brother. Where did you disappear?“ Mabel laughed, catching him with an empty glass and a half-empty bottle.

Dipper rolled his eyes and smiled wider.

"Mabel, we're the same age. Also I noticed that one bottle of champagne was open before the guests arrived”

He frowned in a mocking way and rubbed his chin,

“Hmm ... But who drank the champagne?..”

He pretended to be chewing a pen, thinking hard.

Mabel stuck out her tongue at her brother and laughed loudly.

"You’re such a nerd!"

She plopped down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder.

“Just think of it, we’re twenty-five now. Do people even have to live so long?”

"I'm still surprised that you even lived to be of age, considering the amount of sugar you absorb daily ... Ow!"  light elbow pokes from her still caught him off guard.

“You deserved that. Be grateful that Mister Tickles didn’t show up for such conversations with your sister.”

“Okaaaay. Mabel, are you sure you’re twenty-five?”  Dipper quickly moved away from Mabel, who was ready to attack on his brother's ribs with his fingers spread out, and raised both hands, "Okay, okay! No more of that!”

"Good brother." Mabel nodded with a satisfied look. "And now, if you'll allow me, jokes aside."

She took a small rectangular bundle from her handbag hanging from her shoulder on a thin chain and solemnly handed it to Dipper.

“Here!”

Dipper took the package from his sister's hands and for a few seconds admired this neatly wrapped in a nice-to-feel gift paper object. It was a pity to spoil such beauty.

“Come on, open it!”

In one motion Dipper opened the package, and in his hands was a large, thick notebook of dark blue. On his soft leather cover was woven golden threads of a small pine tree. Dipper carefully opened the title page, which was encoded with a neat letter. This time Dipper's face was lit up with a sincere smile - they invented the cipher together, many years ago, when in the classroom they passed notes to each other or left them in lockers.

"Wow ..." Dipper sighed. "I ... um ... thanks, Mabel."

"You're welcome, Dip," his sister shone, "I just wondered where it's seen that Dipper wouldn’t have a journal, would he?"  she again laughed and wrapped her arms around him, pulling her brother in a bear hug.

“Happy birthday, Dipper.”

"Happy birthday, Mabel," he replied, breathing in the fragrance of her floral perfume. "I ... um-uh ..." he cleared his throat and pulled away. "My present ... it... I decided not to carry it with me, so it's in the house, but ... I'm sure you'll like it too.

“It would be better if it was so.” Mabel said haughtily. With these words she jumped up, grabbing Dipper by the sleeve of his shirt and dragging him toward the house.

"There's a whole bunch of them there! Gifts!” she skipped off to the house, taking her stumbling brother along with her. "Let's go! I can’t wait to open each one right now!”

* * *

“Son of a…”  the lighter was still sent to the garbage because of malfunctioning, and now all the hope remained that the houses still had matches. Dipper had already rummaged through all the drawers in the kitchen, but not even one sucker was found in this abundance of kitchen utensils and cutlery, such an absurd abundance for the apartment, now serving as a lonely young man's refuge.

Dipper's gaze wandered around the kitchen, the space in his eyes doubled, quadrified - in general it was multiplying in every possible way, and it was extremely difficult to focus on something definite.

Was it really necessary to get so drunk? He did not have a car in New York for the time being, he used to travel by public transport and a taxi, but this is not an excuse for finding a pub on his way home to Brooklyn and staying there until midnight. The morning will be very bad. Very painful and bad.

But, it looks like this is the problem of tomorrow's Dipper, not today's, who has a real business to do now.

He held his hand to the countertop, and staggered to the gas stove, which looked like the last chance to light a damned cigarette, clamped in his teeth. Unsafe last chance. After meditating for couple of seconds, Dipper shook his head, muttering "No, sir," and went to investigate further. Still an eternity, according to the present chronology of Dipper, was wasted - there were no lighters or matches in the house, so that the stove was again in his field of vision.

Still adhering to the nearby interior for a safety net, Dipper drove to the suspicious fire-breathing inhabitant of his house. The fire was only lit from the fifth attempt, and, bending over to the hotplate itself and almost putting his shirt collar on fire, Dipper finally sucked in the pungent tobacco smoke.

And, it turned out that trying to smoke his first cigarette in life right now was a bad idea. Even disgusting. Not only that, he immediately became overwhelmed with a heavy cough and the shaking of his diaphragm awakened something dark in the stomach, consisting of half of bourbon, and half of the birthday cake.

Oh, shit, shit, SHIT!

To the left from the kitchen into the corridor, to the end ... lights on...

Where’s this switch ?!

Oh no! ..

FUCK!!!

At the last second Dipper managed to touch the toilet before he utterly unpleasantly vomited. All thoughts and emotions were compressed into a dot, leaving the consciousness with a devastatingly pure emptiness.

At some point, it might even have seemed that Dipper had blacked out, but as soon as the last urge receded, he straightened leaning with his hands on the rim of the toilet bowl and stood on his unsteady legs and went to the sink, much more tired and much less drunk.

At least giving the face a splash and rinsing the mouth with a freshener will not hurt.

And what do we have here? Oh, nothing, just your dirty still green face with a week stubble and some substance smeared around your mouth.

Oh, gross, ew!

He pulled off his shirt right over his head, doused his face with cold water, rinsed his mouth and staggered into his room.

Well, that's my life now. Drinking, no permanent job, a broken heart ... what could be better?

Dipper hobbled to the bed and plumped on it, without even bothering to remove the veil and pull off his trousers.

At least here I can quit pretending, he thought, as the tears came down bombarding his pillow.

[nightcoremoon]

Callout post: me

lying, manipulative, hold grudges, constantly paranoid, would absolutely 100% check out a teenager if nobody was looking because "it's a harmless crime", liar, cycle through idealization and devaluation, 'sick of fat people trying to be the next civil rights issue and making it that much harder to get civil rights for people who are ACTUALLY oppressed like gee idk poc and muslims and the mentally ill and queer people', frequently fantasizes about committing violent acts against people I rationalize they deserve it including family members, untruthful, attention whore, pedantic AND pretentious, tells lies, doesn't believe in one sister's claim of sexual assault (went to smoke weed with the alleged perpetrator), UNAPOLOGETICALLY AGAINST ASEXUAL EXCLUSIONISM (LITERALLY FUCK YOU DUMBASS FOURTEEN YEAR OLDS WHO SHRIEK THAT QUEER IS A SLUR, SHUT YOUR GODDAM FUCKING WHORE MOUTHS YOU DUMBASSES AND GO THE FUCK OUTSIDE OR READ A BOOK), would absolutely punch a child over an insignificant internet argument, secretly sought out sexual pleasure from two friendly seemingly platonic encounters with two girls I just met within twenty four hours, overreacts to the slightest provocations and has bitches at or vagueposted at several people who did not deserve it, has used mental illness and physical handicap to evade trouble from being late for work because video games and laziness and excessive sleep, has spent maybe a thousand dollars on fast food in 2018 alone, evades bills for medical care from an actually great clinic, lying sack of garbage, gave up on calling out family's bigotry and is now an accessory to prejudice, despises terfs predominantly for their refusal to fuck me because of being trans and yet meanwhile would not engage in sexual relationship with another trans woman or cis man unless reeeeeeeeally drunk, can and will blame being sexually assaulted as a child which probably didn't even happen because I don't think I remember it, unabashed furry, probably as addicted to video games and masturbation AND LIES as I almost was to alcohol, pretended to have almost been an alcoholic just to "win" facebook arguments about addiction, doesn't give a fuck my dad almost died from heroin JUST because he's a *little* homophobic and racist and classist and xenophobic because of a christian upbringing, would literally fucking murder him if he EVER PUTS HIS HANDS ON ME AGAIN, only slightly depressed because of laziness and a lack of drive and ungrateful to my family because hey they didn't kick me out for being trans so HEY THATS SUPPORTIVE ENOUGH FOR SOME OTHER PEOPLE SO WHY CANT I BE HAPPY WITH THAT, legitimately salty about ~the friendzone~ and just makes fun of incels because everybody else does, takes the moral high ground for not being a misogynist even though I don't deserve a pat on the back a lap dance and a blowjob for not hating women, overly sensitive about stupid things, thinking about faking having a trigger warning for more discourse credit, HUUUGE ASSHOLE to men I deem unattractive for no other reason than every single ugly fat guy I've ever met has been an asshole, rationalizes it after the fact because they eventually say something shitty because all men are terrible, probably a little bit of a cisnormative misandrist because trans men tend to be much better people, finds trans men attractive (specifically and significantly more so than cis men) so must clearly be fetishizing them, relatively okay with people referring to me as deadnamed and the wrong pronouns so probably just lying about being trans to everyone including myself, not 100% okay with the hijab for 'no reason other than all organized religion is evil and opposed to its mandate and the shame it forces on many women in many situations the exact same way I'm opposed to no sex before marriage and wives being subservient to their husbands and treating women as property in the torah and quran alike because ITS ALL BRAINWASHING' so is clearly not unlearning islamophobia and doesn't want to let that go, hypocrite because I believe in the basics of judeochristianity

and loathe atheism and atheists entirely because their smugness and smarm literally sets my blood pressure through the roof of what is safe and normal and yet claim to hate all organized religion, mansplains yet gets so pissed off when other people mansplain to me, judgmental of other cultures because they don't have the exact same values that I have, james gunn apologist, talks and talks and talks about anarchosocialism all damn day but would beat the shit out of a coworker for leaving me to do things because they're lazy because "any job worth doing is worth doing well" and other capitalismisms, literally couldn't give less of a fuck that his mother is dying because people die but it's no reason to make my life slightly harder and making me work hard when I work because BOO HOO MY LEGS HURT FROM THE LITERALLY MOST MILD CASE OF MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY I COULD'VE BEEN BORN WITH, hasn't actually performed real suicide attempt ever but still claims to have done so to attain sympathy that may result in physical affection, countless other shitty terrible things that yeah I recognize are bad but CANT SEEM TO CARE BECAUSE I HAVE DEPRESSION... WHICH IS THE WEAKEST FUCKING EXCUSE IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE GODDAMN WORLD

I am not a good person, okay?

I just pretend to be sometimes.

I'm sick of doing it, I'm sick of trying to do well and earn people's approval by doing and saying the right things only to just be ignored which is a step up from receiving many anons that hey, never actually told me to kill myself, but did take my words out of context to paint me as a racist. I am not the kind of racist who would vote for trump and march with the kkk. that is one of very few good things I can say about myself. but I'm an arrogant, violent, and angry opinionated perverted manipulative judgmental lying asshole. I'm not a good person. I have let myself fall so much and I deserve to be alone. my only connections to people were built on personal gain and I swear to myself that I do love them but those feelings fall away in direct correlation to how much they interact with me. I could love you to the point of obsession and stalking and one month later be completely and totally disinterested. I'm a bigot who pretends to not be bigoted and just parrots what other people say not because I believe it but because it's the right thing to say, and I only say what the right thing is to say because whenever I say a good thing something good will happen to me and if I say a bad thing something bad happens to me. it's all just self preservation, nothing else at all. but now I'm at the end of a road of just trying to do good and I'm alone. out of the only two friends that I can really say that I have left, one is far away and trapped in a guilt spiral that I caused by being too clingy, and the other has been behaving in a way my mind has decoded as defensive around me which makes sense as I have been very... the best way to describe it would be the way a dudebro incel interacts with any person who possesses a vagina/breasts but sneakier. in both relationships I've pushed my own wants and desires in extremis... I can't for the life of me recall the last time I have ever offered something in return other than my own company or paying for a meal at a restaurant or I guess transportation. and instead of sex I just want them to express even the slightest bit of intimate platonic physical affection towards me but that's still a lot to offer someone who has clearly expressed the existence of a sexual and maybe something near the realms of romantic in one of the cases physical attraction because for this aspec it's practically the same fucking thing.

and I've manipulated them to attain this goal. at this point my shit brain has considered just fucking going to town on my wrists with a razor blade to draw sympathy so that I'll get a hug or something beyond just a simply hello/goodbye, and finding a way to induce tears to concoct a sob story to reach the same end result, and one time very briefly via threat and intimidation so you can clearly see that I've gone far too into irredeemable territory. I've been playing and replaying cry of fear because it's just too similar to my own issues and the first ending where he just kills everyone he loves and then himself... I see me in that ending. and it scares me so much more than the sprinting screaming twitching one hit kill chainsaw guy ever will. I don't want that to be me, I want to change something, but I just can't get the help that I need. I had hoped to go for a domino effect, where if I could be cuddled for like five minutes or something, I'd have the energy to be more hygienic, which would make me feel capable enough to take on two jobs, which would get me the cash flow I need to pay my bills and take care of my hormones, which would put me in the headspace necessary to effectively use psychological help, which would let me get over my illnesses and actually become a more successful person instead of the pathetic husk I am here in non-fantasy land.

but that won't happen.

I'm just sitting here in the dark angsting about how nobody will touch me in a way that would produce oxytocin, and it's making me so sick, so physically sick, that it's affecting my brain too. I'm in pain, nauseous, vengeful, spiteful, paranoid, judgmental, and lonely. I'm stuck and I can't even kill myself because my mind wants me to stay alive and suffer through all of this because "oh it gets better" people have been saying that for well over half of my life. I was six or seven years old when I asked my mother to kill me, and that same level of desperation and bitterness has only gotten worse as time goes by. when does it get better? I'll tell you when it gets better, after I'm in prison or comatose or forty five years old with a cane and bad eyes and high blood pressure and lung cancer from all the secondhand smoke I've breathed in my life. when my life is over, that's when it gets better. I DONT WANT THAT. I WANT A NORMAL FUCKING LIFE RIGHT NOW. I WANT NORMAL FRIENDSHIPS AND A NORMAL HOME AND A NORMAL EDUCATION AND A NORMAL CAREER AND A NORMAL FAMILY. or at least I want someone to hold me and make me feel like I'm not so horrible and broken that I can't be touched.

but that's too much to ask for.

[aliahaider-blog]

Introduction: The 4 Groups (An introduction to a memoir of my life, whether part of the Chala Vahi Des project or not)

**IMPORTANT** To read the first installment or mention of upcoming projects by me, read the blog post below before proceeding to this one. Thanks. The following excerpt is my ideal introduction to a story that fully encompasses my life as a Desi American. I initially imagined it being a part of the Chala Vahi Des project (more information contained in the blog post below) but now, as previously stated, I don't really know where to fit it. It may stand as part of a completely separate project unrelated to my connection with Texas, or it may work as the introduction to my spiritual transformation growing up in this hot, humid state. Either way, the excerpt itself touches on many of the aspects of growing up Desi, or the child of an immigrant as a whole, in America. Again, some of the statements can be perceived as provocative. It feels like soon enough that'll be my job. But if in any case this offends you, then sorry, but also pease try to see it in a way that doesn't. Enjoy!

​American Desi kids were divided into 4 groups. Desi means someone whose parents are from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, or any of the related subcontinent countries. Loosely, I guess; I never really looked up the actual definition or etymology of it so that was my first instinct to go by. Anyways, the groups.

The group of kids who studied a lot but didn’t know a whole lot. You could put these kids through Harvard and buy them $1 million worth of books and they’d get a 4.0. But put them through Harvard and ask them to experience something that broadens their cultural knowledge and they can’t make much out of it. They studied 24/7 and were expected to be the cultural, technological, and scientific leaders of their century but couldn’t tell you who the cultural, technological, and scientific leaders of any century living up to them were, let alone the ones who were still alive. I actually felt sorry for them; they bore a great deal of pressure from their peers and parents for things that wouldn’t play out in any normal person’s head. Their parents would always reiterate that they need to be close to their heritage, which to them was going to mosque or church or temple once a week without questioning or seeking the motives to do so and then studying science or engineering the rest of their life. It was a mix of material pleasure and coercion. No novel that had any cultural or religious significance was even comparable in value to an SAT textbook—at least to their parents--yet at the dinner table religion and heritage was the paramount value in life. This whole scheme confused the Group 1 kids, but they never questioned it because they did everything their parents told them to and eventually grew up to be the same as them. Another facet that seemed to inhibit their ability to develop an understanding of something other than their chemistry textbooks was their frequent avoidance of black people. Even the African and black Group 1 kids avoided the black kids. It was an irrational fear of a non-existent threat that has lived long in the Eastern mentality and kept Group 1 kids in their quiet, reserved spots. Neither their parents nor they were bad people by any means, just born into a recurring ideology that happened to breed subtle racism. I mean, I guess it got more subtle over time. However, they tended to be the most hospitable (partly because they had the nicest homes). But they were really reserved, which is why there’s not much to say about them.  

The Group 2 kids, who were considered opinion leaders, creative writers, musical aficionados, successful businessmen/women, and style icons by their white Christian friends but were considered misfits by their parents and the rest of the immigrant community. These kids were naturally intelligent but not in the way that their families would have preferred. They had insane creativity and could use it to get by in every other aspect of life. Force them or motivate them to study an amount of material that takes a normal brain 3 hours to retain and they’ll find a way to retain it in 30 minutes, but the hard part was exactly that, you had to either force them or motivate them. They were the kids that didn’t really give a damn but could be really famous and successful if they did. They understood complex ideas and structures better than anybody else. They were mostly atheists, agnostics, or loose followers of their religions but somehow understood religion and their community teachings better and in a broader scope than most of the other kids in the community who actively participated in it. They liked to think 20 years ahead and about how they can influence the world but frequently got carried away secretly partying and smoking weed while telling their parents that they were studying. Yet somehow, they tended to never fail a class, even when they got really close, happening to lower their parents’ expectations without lowering them too much so they could still pay for everything. Not that their parents wouldn’t, because their parents loved them. And the children knew it, and they loved their parents too, so they would often act out of guilt towards everything. Like doing a major they didn’t like all that much while behind the scenes they read novels until 2 in the morning or did freelance photography instead of studying. They had to compromise a lot, which is probably why they were really nice; I mean, most of the kids were nice, but the Group 2 kids were really nice. They said “yes” to a lot of requests and invites that they would’ve liked to say “no” to. Sometimes they wondered if they could get famous by compiling an anthology of all the papers they wrote for their friends, either for free or for money. They minded it a lot of times, though they said they didn’t, but at the end of the day they took everything as a learning experience. If you put them in Harvard, they’d probably barely graduate with a 2.5 but they’d learn so much through mere experience that they would eventually become the people who show up on your Facebook newsfeed in the latest TED Talk or be the sorry activist that Fox News chooses to invite on the show and belittle, because Group 2 kids were constantly defying the stereotypes of Desi children that Fox reporters worked so hard to reinforce. Any Group 2 kid would enjoy being the one belittled on Fox News because they loved the spotlight, even the humiliating one. They were quite the eccentric bunch and used their notoriety to bring something different to longstanding structures. These kids didn’t avoid the black kids, they weren’t studying science or engineering, and they didn’t have much to say about religion. So it was kind of hard to view them as normal.

The nice kids. Yeah, the Group 2 kids were the really nice kids, but they were never considered the “nice kids,” unless they worked hard enough to get the title. The nice kids were considered the nice kids because they couldn’t be considered anything else. Their parents weren’t doctors, engineers, or any type of major opinions leaders like writers and musicians, and they didn’t care enough about living extraordinary lives, so the Group 1 & 2 kids chose to be impressed by their generosity. The nice kids would always offer support and would want everyone to fit in, including themselves. Their lives were as mundane as the next non-doctor, non-lawyer, non-Group 2 kid’s life, but they were cool with it. Sometimes a Group 3 kid would stumble into a Group 1 kid’s field. Like, for example, say a taxi driver’s kid, named Ahmed, grows up to be a doctor. They never did brag about it, but you bet everyone else did. It was a scummy class thing. All of a sudden, the taxi driver was everyone’s friend and the doctor-child would be the suburban legend, the one-who-got-out, so that if anyone ever accused the Group 1-ers of being racist or classist they could just say “but I’m friends with Ahmed and he has humble beginnings!” It was the “I have black friends” of the upper-class Desi circle, though “I have black friends” was also a frequent excuse. This never diminished the Group 3 kids’ generosity and kindness, though. Group 3 kids had adequate knowledge about things but were never interested enough to discover what the Group 2 kids sought to discover; that is, they never asked “why?”. And they thought it was cool that Group 2 kids had odd passions, so they never questioned them but never engaged in those passions either. They would show up to the weekly religious services but they’d never interject into the qudba or the sermon or the Pooja, just kind of follow it as it went. They were well-known but they weren’t notorious. They knew what they believed in and were content with not bringing it up around those who disagreed with them. Group 3 kids were the most relaxing yet most aggravating kids we’d encounter because they were so down for whatever that you questioned their motives. They would read for English class but never picked up a book when it wasn’t assigned. They would’ve only watched 3 movies ever before turning 21 years old, and they never really watched television. Not that it was a dreadful thing, it was just so weird. You never knew what their lives outside of family looked like, or if they even had one. One thing was certain, though: Group 3 kids were the most independent, besides Group 4 kids.

The Group 4 kids were a combination of all 3 other groups with none of the aggravating or annoying characteristics associated with them. These kids were the smartest, most cunning, best-looking, most generous and humblest kids in the immigrant communities. These kids generally studied a lot and got 2400s on their SATs. The thing was, they could have gotten 2400s even if they didn’t study, and they could perform the same in any other aspect without studying, but they still did because there was no point in not. Their relationships with their families were perfect, and so were their families. Their parents were fully aware of their capabilities, so they never forced their kids to be successful viceroys of their own dreams. They paid for their children’s educations and passions without any second thought or conditions, and neither they nor their children made a big deal out of it at parties. But everyone knew that these were the kids destined for greatness; academically, intellectually, socially, and in all other aspects. They were the ones who could get through medicine, engineering, and computer science all at once with a 4.0 and become millionaires at 22 years old but instead chose to pursue public policy, or social work, or better yet, art, all of which they were incredibly proficient in as well. The thing that sucked was that they weren’t cocky about it, ever, so you couldn’t hate them even if you tried. They liked the spotlight when it was admirable to like the spotlight and kept quiet when it was admirable to keep quiet. The only resentment towards Group 4 kids that could possibly exist was envy, and even that never lasted long because Group 4 kids had the ability to make even the laziest, most unambitious scumbags feel like they were doing something with their lives. They were the holiest and most fun kids too, always the life of the party but also the voice of wisdom. No one knew what this meant for Group 4 kids, though. These perfect characteristics made the other kids blind to the burden and pressure that they bore. You never knew when they were going through shit. And when people found out that one of them was, everyone was torn to pieces. This didn’t really lift that burden off the Group 4 kids either. Imagine if someone else’s mood relies on your mood 24/7. The entirety of their lives was extremely rugged due to these sensations processing all at once. They were, it seemed, too perfect.

It wasn’t hard for these four groups to get along, since all of them were great people (some could be described as stellar, some could be described as mundane, so “great” is the most medium word to use). Some were shy while others enjoyed the spotlight but none of them shunned one another. We’d see one another at the mosque or temple or church and, when we did, all the social cliques you’d expect to exist in a group of kids disappeared. There were no lunch tables, just a bunch of people who talked about a lot of cool shit within the few hours they were together. But there were those who never showed up and never really acknowledged the large community we had. These people were the outliers.

You would seldom see the outliers at any of the community cultural events. They’d maybe come once for Eid or a few times during the year for Ramadan to eat all the free food during Ifthar. Or they’d go to a Holi celebration to bathe in colors and post a picture on Facebook and then leave again for the rest of the year. We’d never see outliers because they tended to only hang out with the white kids. They were the ones who sat in the back of geography class to avoid being asked questions about their culture by the professor when it came to the segment that discussed Islam or Hinduism or Buddhism, and again when it came to the segment discussing their parents’ South Asian home country, wherever it was. They were the ones who couldn't care less about where they came from until it could be used as an excuse to use the “n” word a lot. The only indication of them being children of immigrants was their skin color. Otherwise, they couldn’t speak a word of Urdu or Hindi or Gujarati or Arabic. Nor did they try to make it seem like they were remotely associated with any of those languages or cultures. They changed their names to white names. Yaqub became Jacob early in his life. Nikhel became Nick, Chukandar became Chuck, Samir became Sam. And don’t get me wrong, all of us hung out with white kids, gave ourselves nicknames for people to have an easier time pronouncing it, and all the rest, but we never did so exclusively. However, the thing is, though we scoff at it now, the majority of us started out this way. “I don’t want to marry a Pakistani girl, they’re too high maintenance,” “I don’t want to eat at an Indian restaurant, we do that at home anyways,” “I hope I don’t see any brown people there, I see enough of that already,” were some of the repetitious phrases that would emanate from our mouths throughout our early lives. But most of us eventually grew out of it, because there were only so many identities we could carry without everybody telling us you aren’t this or you aren’t that. Only we knew what the are was, it was what connected us with one another. You could take us out of our cliques for years, seclude us from the other first-generation brown kids, but never stop us from picking up where we left off because there was some string of cultural identity we shared with one another that we didn’t share with anyone else. I don’t blame and can’t blame, and no one should blame the ones that stayed outliers. Our Desi communities failed us in many steps of the process and that stuck with some people. For others, it was just about balance, about not letting the parts that left us dissatisfied stick with us for the rest of our lives. Cheering for Pakistan when they play cricket but detaching from a culture of homophobia and transphobia that derived from there. We balanced a mix of South Asian and western influences, a balance that not even our parents could detect. And that mastery was what directed most of our lives of confusion: it influenced how we talked, how we made friends, how we studied, what political views we carried, and what emotions we experienced.

We became the wave of first generation kids that really dignified the term Desi or Pakistani-American or Indian-American or whatever else we called ourselves, because as we struggled to move forward and determine what ethnicity/nationality/identity we really are, we began to mend the trauma that is attached to the generations before us. I never knew why I felt such a deep connection with those who shared my experiences as a first-generation kid, but I realized it had to do with that trauma carried down to me. Whatever speck of praise I have for those who represent that trauma, for every Hassan Minhaj or Aziz Ansari or Riz Ahmed or Himanshi Suri or Zayn Malik or Maria Qamar or Swet Shop Boys or AK Paul or Dev Patel there is, it’s not expressed for the sole purpose of my ethnic pride from being represented but for a reconciliation of that trauma. We really are the first ones, at a large scale, to do this, to be a product of such a notorious diaspora that rendered our identities so flexible and unstable since before we were born. And lest I become trampled under the stampede of uncertainty, I had to reimagine what it meant when I say I am Desi, the term that hung over my head as both a beckoning and a trap for most of my childhood. It meant constantly being the river between two worlds: Pakistan and America, Pakistan and India, the east and the west, Islam and secularism, war and peace, unity and hostility, and, above all, relapse and recovery. It all began in first grade.