#and yes maybe my version of relaxing is watching a movie that wrenched my heart open why do you ask???

[permanentreverie]

Me? Rewatching Your Name even though it emotionally destroyed me? It's more likely than you think

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #403

“ashes to ashes, watch me disappear”

If given the opportunity, would you like to star in a musical? Definitely not. I don't like musicals. Name one person you’d take a bullet for: There's honestly a lot, but Mom immediately came to mind. Any posters of a band on your bedroom wall? Yeah: Metallica and Marilyn Manson currently. I want lots more, especially an Ozzy one. Do you think you’ve already met your soulmate? I don't believe in soulmates. Do you share your bedroom with anyone? No, unless you include my cat and snake. Is your favorite color yellow? No, it's actually one of my least favorites. Were you born in a hospital? I was. Do you know the name of the person that delivered you? No, but Mom does. I think he delivered me and my two sisters, and I know Mom has seen him since for other reasons. Was your birth recorded? God no. Good call, Mom. Did you eat a peach this week? Would you believe me if I told you I had a small bit of peach pie for my sister's birthday? For some reason, I just really wanted to try some. It was okay, but the aftertaste sucked. Are you leaving the house tomorrow? Yes, for TMS therapy. Every weekday. Do you enjoy romantic movies, even when they’re cliche? I honestly do. If you could get free vocal lessons would you take them? Probably not. I don't like singing in front of anyone, and it's not like I wanna get anywhere with my singing, so. Is your mother diabetic? She is. Are you? No. Ever sang someone to sleep? No. Who do you stalk the most through Facebook? Nobody. Have you ever deleted your Facebook, then brought it back? No. What is your main responsibility each day? Be sure to take my medications. Do you feel like you fulfill those responsibilities? Yeah. There are rare mornings where I forget, but I almost always remember. I don't fw skipping out on meds that keep my mental health stable. When was the last time you used spray paint? Good question. Do you know the middle name of the last person you kissed? Yep. Who is the friendliest person you know? My mom, probably. Something that annoys you about summer: THE HEAT. THE HUMIDITY. UGH. Something that annoys you about winter: Hm. That's hard to say, given I love winter. I guess the fact it doesn't snow enough here. Are the doors of your fridge side by side or on top of one another? Side-by-side. If you’ve moved out of the house you were born in, do you know the people who live in that house now? Nope. Have you ever cried in a movie theater? Not sobbed or anything, but I've definitely teared up and gotten the sniffles because of multiple movies. Do you read comic books? No. Do you force your way into conversations in which you are not involved? No. Have you ever seriously pretended to be clinically insane? I didn't need to pretend; I'm pretty damn sure I was for a while. Might I add that it's EXTREMELY inconsiderate to pretend you're insane, btw. Insanity is not "cool." It's not "funny." It's not "edgy." It's a serious, confusing, heart-wrenching issue that can ruin lives. Do you know anyone with a stutter? Yes, myself included when I'm even mildly nervous. And sometimes just randomly. With a lisp? I don't believe so. What was the last board game you played? The Disney version of "Pretty Pretty Princess" w/ my niece and even my nephew, even though his sexist-ass dad didn't want him to. Like let your kid have some fun with his sister and aunt, goddamn. They had a blast. It was Aubree's birthday present from me, so I am SO glad she loved it. Did you win? Ha ha, no, I always let Aubree or Ryder win. I came super close once, but I let the kids bend the rules a bit. They don't like losing, and even though they definitely need to understand that just happens and is totally fine for it to, I wasn't about to be the one to make them sad about it. When was the last time you tried to speak with an accent? OH MY LAAAAAWWWWWWD. Also at Aubree's b-day party, at one point, I spoke in a snobbish British accent while I was winning at the aforementioned game. Ryder asked, "Why are you speaking Spanish?", and I fuckin DIED. Have you ever made up a word before? Yeah, I know at least a few instances for fantasy animals in writing. When was the last time you went to a museum? A couple summers ago when my brother and his son visited, we went to a science museum. My nephew was sooooo into it. Do you have a nice yard? If so, do you spend a lot of time outside in it? If not, where do you go when you want to relax outdoors on nice days? Our front and back yards are both small and honestly very boring. The grass is a pretty green, but that's the only nice thing about it. I don't go to sit outside here on any day. Do your parents enjoy any of the things that you enjoy? Do you bond over these things? My parents and I have very similar music tastes, so there's that. I also didn't know for the longest time that Mom likes to write, which I sure as hell do, too! She doesn't really write anymore though, and she's self-conscious of it anyway, like I am. She and I also love a lot of the same shows. What is the movie that you have waited the longest for/which film do you remember anticipating the most/are still anticipating? I think The Incredibles 2. I aaaalways wanted to know what happened after the end of the first film. Do you have any ideas for a story or movie you’re planning to write or you’d write if you had the time/had the talent? Please share a synopsis! I genuinely think some RP I've written is series-worthy, but I don't feel like re-writing the YEARS of RP into a book format, and I sincerely worry that the ridiculously dark parts could inspire people like serial killers and cause A LOT of controversy, crime-blaming, and just general hate. I don't want to be involved in that. What is something that an interested guy/girl could comment about you, that would make you instantly open to them (e.g., “That book you’re reading is from my favorite author”)? Compliment my Markiplier tattoo, obviously knowing it's a tribute to him, and we're essentially besties. Is there a person in your life (maybe barely) that you feel in constant competition with (even just in your imagination)? Maybe you feel they are consistently outshining you? Ugh... there's a local photographer that's much more successful than I am that I admittedly am very envious of. I swear to whatever god you may believe in that I mean it from a modest perspective, I really, really do, but I genuinely think my skills surpasses hers, and she's only more prevalent because photography REALLY is about who you know. She's talented, yes, but like... come on. If you are single, even if you are normally happily single, are there certain specific things you witness that make you wish you were in a relationship (e.g., people getting engaged)? I mean yeah. I miss cuddling, holding hands, kissing, just being cute together, and especially people getting engaged or having kids. It's such a trigger to me. Once upon a time, that's all I wanted with Jason. I wanted to be that beautiful couple that got married and had two or three loved-beyond-words children, but then he left so abruptly, and I feel like it was so brutally robbed from me. I don't want kids anymore like at all, but the point still stands that I felt like my dreams were just ripped away. Out of all your usernames for websites, which one is your favorite? Do you use it for more than one site? I use "Ozzkat" just about everywhere. Have you ever spent the whole day (or multiple days) just looking up one thing on the internet (e.g., videos of your favorite band, how-to videos, quizzes, etc.)? OHHHHHHHHHH YEAH. There have been a couple days or so where I was totally glued to looking up various tattoo designs, bingeing let's plays or conspiracy theory videos, etc. etc. If you ever think about getting married, what are some aspects of the wedding that you would like to see in a non-traditional manner (e.g., a different color dress or “partners” over “husband” and “wife”)? I WILL NOT get married in a church, first of all. I'm also not having the traditional vows, and I probably won't wear a white dress, but instead black. Salt & vinegar, barbecue, sour cream & onion, or cheddar? Ohhhh, I like all those options but barbecue. I think I've gotta go with sour cream & onion, though. Bow ties on guys, dorky or adorable? A D O R A B L E ! ! ! I think they're ordinarily geeky, but I mean, geeky is cute in my world. :^) Do you believe in demonic possession? How about ghosts? Angels? Angels, no. Spirits/ghosts, 100%. I don't exactly believe in demons, per se, but I do question if evil spirits can possess someone. What is one romantic movie that you enjoy enough to watch more than once? I've seen The Notebook numerous times. Name three countries you want to visit; why those three? South Africa to interact with meerkats at the KMP, somewhere up in Canada to see the Northern Lights, and Germany just because, really. I took German for four semesters, and the culture and all just interests me. Do you have a good luck charm? No, considering I don't believe they do jack. Do you use Skype to talk to your friends? Only Sara. Now that I have Discord semi-figured out now though, we'll probably use that for voice chatting. Are you allergic to any animals? I might be allergic to dogs. Do you usually spend your weekends out, or at home? I'm like... always at home. Do you think it’s wrong for people to say "retard/retarded" as an insult? Absofuckinglutely. Don't pull that shit when I'm around. Have you ever had to go to the police department? No. Have you ever lived through a hurricane? Plenty. Have you ever had a home-grown tomato? Yes, from my old friend's garden. We'd have delicious tomato, mayo, and bacon sandwiches. The only instance where I've enjoyed tomatoes. Have you ever held a real gun? The former friend I mentioned just before, her husband always carried a gun, and he just needed me to hold it for a sec for some reason I don't recall. I hated the feeling. Would you rather wear Converse or Vans? I like both, but I think I prefer Converse. Have you ever been called bipolar? Yes, because I clinically am. Have you ever made fun of a handicapped person? FUCK no. And like the "retarded" thing, don't you fucking DARE to do this in front of me. I WILL deck the shit out of you. Do you think it’s okay to have sex before marriage? Sure, as long as you're being safe and are very thorough in communication. Do you like to watch old sitcoms? I don't really watch TV as I say in like every survey it seems, but I do enjoy some old sitcoms I grew up watching with my mom, like The Nanny, The Golden Girls, The Munsters, etc. If asked, could you run a mile nonstop right now? Being completely serious, I don't even know if I CAN physically run right now. My legs are so incredibly weak, and I'm humiliatingly close to what my heaviest weight was back in 2016, so I can almost guarantee my knees would crumple if I tried. Do you wear those rubber wristbands? I used to. I don't really like bracelets nowadays. If a necklace/ring gives you green marks, do you still wear it? Nope. Have you ever driven an electric car? No. When was the last time you saw someone you went to high school with? Uhhhh idk. What breed was the last dog you saw? A fucking GOLIATH of a lab. I shit you not when I say my sister's roommate's dog Hudson is the size of a goddamn bear. How long have your parents been together (or how long were they together, if they no longer are): I wanna say they were together at the very least 20 years. What has been your most epic cooking failure? I once accidentally put something (I don't remember what) in the microwave for around 45 minutes I believe, and I walked away and completely forgot about it. I remembered a long while later, and safe to say, it wasn't edible, whatever it was, lmao. Have you ever been to Mexico? No. Have you ever had a parrot sit on your shoulder? No, but that'd be cool. Has anyone in your life ever treated you abusively? No. How long has it been since your last breakup? Somewhere around two years ago? My memory is so garbage nowadays. Can you concentrate well while listening to music, or do you find it distracting? It's distracting, usually. What’s something you’ve been struggling with lately? I've been pretty bad about drinking too much soda lately. :/

[haildoodles-writing]

endless

ONESHOT

Pairing: Connor x reader

Summary: You suffer with chronic pain — and today isn’t a good day. But Connor is there, as he always is.

Warnings: chronic illness, slight angst that turns into tooth-rotting fluff

A/N: Outside of readers having anxiety and/or depression, I haven’t seen a lot of D:BH Connor fics with a reader that has any other prominent health issues. This was created to bring more inclusion and awareness into the life of someone with lifelong nerve pain. The exact chronic illness depicted here is Fibromyalgia— my version of it, at least, as the symptoms, types of pain, and coping methods do vary from person to person. This oneshot was based on my own experiences living with it.

Dedicated to @thirium-bae, @moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown, @queefsofsilence, and many others who supported me in writing and posting this fic.

* * *

It was a bad day— a bad evening, to be more precise.

Occasionally this happened. Your nerve pain was sporadic, coming on too quickly and too randomly to decipher a proper pattern. Some days you were bedridden; other days you could deal with it and push through work. Sometimes the pain was direct and sharp, other times it felt like a body-wide ache. And on the worst days, even Connor’s hugs and rubbing and squeezes all weren’t enough to dull the pain. 

Either way, you knew Connor hated it. You knew that he always had, ever since you first told him about it.

Not only did he hate the fact that you had so many health issues the he couldn’t always help, he hated the fact that it was always so random. He couldn’t estimate a common time for when you would wake suddenly, crying into his arms. He couldn’t decipher exactly how you felt, as it was never the same. He couldn’t enter your problems into his systems and find a way to fix you, and it killed him. And the way he would sometimes hold himself responsible killed you, too.

That evening, Connor had called you after his shift at the DCPD. He had offered to pick you up and go to Jimmy’s Bar with him to celebrate Hank’s birthday — everyone at the precinct would be there. You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were currently in the bath, curled up and speaking to him through the phone that was teetering on the edge of the tub. The pain today wasn’t exactly bad; it was more of an aching and uncomfortable nuisance than anything. Still, though, the prescriptions from this morning didn’t do much. You figured that maybe the muscle relaxer salts would.

“. . . Love?”

You hadn’t realized you had zoned out and straightened, water falling from your back. The bruises that you knew weren’t there ached. “Yeah, sorry. Got distracted for a second.” You breathed, wondering how to tell him—

“Sick day?” he asked, ever so gently.

As if he could read your vitals and scan you through the phone, he knew how you felt. A smile tugged at your lips, despite how thick your throat suddenly became.

“Yeah.”

You heard him pause at the other end and could feel the breath he drew in your own chest. You could almost see his LED swirling yellow, watching him walk to a private corridor to drown out the noise. His hand likely itching to pull out his coin and fiddle with it.

“On the scale?” Connor eventually asked, his voice even lower and softer than before.

It was your thing: ever since you told him, ever since you sat him down and explained to him why you were “sick” every so often, the two of you developed a scale to rate the pain. One on the best day, ten on the worst. It was Connor’s own way to understand how you were feeling and to support you accordingly — still, you felt like a hindrance. But he would kiss you and show you just how much he loved you until you realized you weren’t, and the feeling would quickly fade.

You ached to the bone — but it wasn’t as bad as other occasions, right? “. . . Six,” you eventually decided. Six was probably accurate.

Connor breathed deeply again. “I wish I could help, my love.”

Despite his melancholy tone, you smiled anyways. “You always do, Con.” And it’s true — he always did. He loved you and you loved him, and that was enough.

A shuffle and a male screech in the background (likely Gavin), and Connor eventually spoke. “I’m leaving at the moment, but we’ll talk when I reach the cab, alright?”

You nodded — and then chuckled when you realized he couldn’t see you. “I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you,” and by the sweetness in his voice when he spoke, you always knew he meant it.

The line cut off, and you were stuck staring at the picture of the two of you from a few months ago: Your first anniversary. A heavy thump came from your chest and you grinned despite yourself.

Eventually, though, even the water grew uncomfortable. You ended up slowly standing from the bath, releasing your still-dry hair from its bun, and grabbing the nearest bathrobe. You had all but managed to drop onto your bed before the front door beeped, its security codes being entered in. Another click, a handful of footsteps, and then your husband was standing in the doorway.

He was in his dress shirt, shoes, and slacks from work — a habit he never managed to drop from before his deviancy. But he had grown his hair slightly and changed its texture years ago— he told you he liked it better that way — so now loose waves grazed his forehead. That single stubborn strand still remained prominent in his hair, however. Despite how often you run your hands through it.

At your soft smile, he took the invitation and sat beside you, pocketing his coin and raising your legs to rest them on top of his. You managed to lean forward slowly and steal a few kisses before your back began its insistent aching again.

“You didn’t call me in the cab,” you chided, the smile still tugging at your lips.

Connor tilted his head in the way he knew made you blush every time — every time — and winked. “Forgive me, my love. I had to make a few arrangements on the way home.” A stray hand rubbed up and down your calf and thigh, focusing on the places he knew were commonly painful.

“Arrangements?” You raised a brow.

You adjusted your position, moving your legs to fall off the bed — they began to hurt too much to be touched, despite how much you wanted them to. Instead, you opted to lean against him, raising a hand to trace his LED. Connor’s fingers then began to rub the length of your spine, and you nearly preened in relief.

“We’re staying in tonight,” he replied nonchalantly, pulling his synthetic skin back from the hand clasping yours and fiddling with the band on your finger. You nearly spoke up to refuse him staying — this was his father’s birthday after all — but he silenced you with a look.

“You never go higher than a five unless its debilitating,” he whispered. And then he raised his head to match your gaze and take you in — body and soul, in a way that made you warm all over again — and you froze.

Sometimes it marveled you how much he could love you. How deep within his lines of code and limitless intelligence and desire to solve every problem he touched, he chose you. Not just your best days and not just your worst, but you. All of you. And in return, you chose all of him. In his bad moments, when he would get too stuck inside his own head and nearly choke on his own guilt and fear, you were there to relieve him. You always would be.

You kissed the nearest patch of skin you could find, pressing your lips against the juncture between Connor’s neck and shoulder. If he noticed your watery eyes, he didn’t mention it.

“Hank will have his hands full with both the entire precinct and Collin and Nines celebrating with him,” he said. “I sent him our well-wishes in the cab. Besides, we can just stop by in the morning.”

You laughed. “He’ll be hungover, though.”

“But hungover Hank is better than drunk Hank, yes?”

“You’re not wrong,” you admitted. Connor smiled at that— a genuine, heart wrenching smile that made your chest burst all over again.

The two of you then sat there for a few minutes in silence, breathing each other in as he rubbed in between your shoulder blades. It was one of your favorite parts of the day, if you had to choose: when you were together, chests rising in sync and limbs intertwined and heads leaning against each other. It made you feel whole.

When you relaxed enough from his touch, he stood from the bed with you in his arms and headed for the doorway. You yelped in protest as the bathrobe began to slip from your shoulder, but Connor merely winked cheekily and continued on.

“Movie night?” he suggested, his signature puppy-dog look creeping onto his face. Trying to distract you, no doubt, to keep you from lifting the robe to cover your exposed shoulder.

But you laughed again and buried your face against his neck instead, listening to his thyrium heart pump. “Deal.”

And despite the fact that your body was throbbing and crumbling at the edges, he didn’t hesitate to kiss you senseless and love you so wholeheartedly that everything else became secondary.

And as he eventually fell into stasis later that night and held you so closely from his side of the bed, you took him in fully. You traced the freckles on his cheeks and the metal plates on his skin-absent palms, and it was then that you promised yourself that you would never cease loving him.  Never.

Until you were the dust of the earth and floated from place to place, you swore to yourself that you would love Connor endlessly.

[slamsams-blog]

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service - #24WeeksofBond

1969 certainly must’ve been a wild time.  For the first time ever, Bond lovers and general movie goers were to go see a Bond movie starring the first “new Bond”.  After 5 movies, Sean Connery simply had enough with the character, the franchise, and the main producer Albert “Cubby” Broccoli.  So how in the world do you step into a role that had been created and branded into the minds of the fans by Sean Connery?  Why even carry on the series without Sean Connery?  I wonder what people thought of the concept of a “new Bond” back then?  Now a days, it’s a right of passage.  We all know that an actor playing Bond has a shelf life, and that they will eventually leave the role only to be replaced by another.  In today’s world, for Bond fans, this moment can be a very exciting thing.  While I LOVE Daniel Craig, I am very anxious to find out who will replace him.  But back in 1969, the thought of a new actor to come in and just carry on the role like nothing happened?  There must have been tons of criticism, skepticism and curiosity.

Enter George Lazenby, the man with the distinction of being the first “new Bond”.  Lazenby was a legit no-name with a care-free, “fly by the seat of your pants” personality.  He was a male model who only got into modeling because someone thought he had the look for it and gave him an opportunity - so he went and did it.  Then the role of Bond came along, and with Lazenby’s natural good looks and cavalier attitude - Lazenby literally just walked into the audition room un-announced and told the directors that they were looking at the man they needed.  Lazenby got the part.  Those actors who had their 2 contrasting 3 minute monologues ready were probably furious.

Back in the day when my brother and my best friend were playing “Goldeneye” on the N64 non-stop, and learning about Bond and all it’s history and the previous actors that came before Brosnan - we had learned that there was a guy who only did one movie.  We didn’t know the man’s name back then, so we always referred to him as “Zachary Dumbhead” when discussing Bond.  As funny of an anecdote that is to me, I must say that Lazenby deserves a little more respect than that.  This was a tough position to be in.

Lazenby may look a bit goofy, and his undercover role of Sir Hilary Bray doesn’t do anything for his overall bravado - but Lazenby plays the role of Bond with a sense of fearlessness and charm, much like how I imagine he was in real life.  

Also, nobody throws a harder punch than Lazenby. Sheesh!  

I simply cannot imagine Connery playing Bond here, especially given how pivotal this Bond movie is to the rest of the series before they hit the reset button with Daniel Craig.  I just don’t think Connery could’ve convinced Bond lovers that he was legitimately in love.  A fresh take on the role would’ve made it easier to buy into the love between Bond and his soon to be wife Contessa Terese di Vincezo (Diana Rigg) or Tracy as she would be known in the film.

I love Lazenby and Rigg’s chemistry, I think these two pull off a believable performance despite their off screen distain for each other.  Yes, it is widely known that Diana Rigg did not care for Lazenby’s childish attitude and over confidence and it created friction while filming.  There is a pretty famous story of Diana Rigg purposely eating food with lots of onion and garlic right before their love scenes so her breath would stink.  If you have time to watch the documentary “Becoming Bond” I suggest you do that - it’s pretty much a doc on Lazenby.

Let’s talk about this plot, this strange, fear of chickens curing plot.  This movie starts out with Bond bailing out who we would come to know as Tracy on a couple of occasions.  Saving her from her trying to drown herself (I think?) and giving her financial help when she blows it at the casino.  We come to find out she is the daughter of the European, generic brand version of Blofeld named Draco (Gabriele Ferzetti).  He brings Bond to his office in forcible fashion and tells him that he’ll give him a million pounds if he marries Tracy.  Bond is like huh?  Bond thinks about the offer because Draco has connections to Blofeld himself, and if he got some info he just might go along with it.

Tracy sniffs this out right away and forces her papa to give Bond the info he desires, so he does.  But here’s the twist, Bond still pursues Tracy...not because she has any other info on Blofeld (which is Bond’s only thing he looks for in a mate) but because he just has an infatuation with her.  So then we see a montage of the typical things two people do while discovering a love for one another...riding horses, sitting by fountains, and what not.  2 minutes of Louie Armstrong later, and boom, they’re officially in love...at least she is.  But now it’s time to work.

Bond follows the lead given to him by Draco and finds where Blofeld is and finds out that Blofeld is bringing a genealogist up to his location to dub him as a count.  Who knows why...Bond meets the man who is supposed to go meet him and quickly learns all there is to know about the subject and comes up with an uncanny impersonation of him.

This is where “OHMSS” really starts getting weird.  We take a break from Bond’s love story with Tracy to go to the Swiss alps where Bond or “Sir Hilary Bray” is to meet Blofeld.  But in doing so, he discovers that he is housing a harem of women to try and cure their allergies by making them eat their allergies for dinner and hypnotizing them every night.  The real plan being that Blofeld is designing a virus to halt all crops from growing and using the girls to distribute the virus.  Of course the ladies love the new man on the block and Bond has a few encounters after-hours.  You sure know how to pick em Tracy!

The odd thing about this is the fact that Blofeld doesn’t recognize Bond right away.  Maybe it’s the Superman effect, where instead of glasses being the difference between Superman and Clark Kent - it’s a Kilt being the difference between James Bond and Sir Hilary Bray - who knows?  Blofeld finds out it’s Bond, not because it’s so obviously Bond, but because he made a tiny slip in the details of the history of his ancestors.  What a Sherlock.

Bond’s discovered, and escapes by ski and some entertainingly bad green screen work and bumps into Tracy again who saves him from the bad guys where they finally escape in a horse barn where they will spend the night.  This is where Bond finally confesses his love for Tracy and asks her to marry him.  I think this scene is beautiful and both actors do a wonderful job.  It’s so simplistic, spontaneous and romantic.  

The bad guys catch up, Tracy gets captured after being swallowed up by an avalanche and Bond goes against M’s wishes and enlists the help of Draco and his henchmen to storm the castle and destroy Blofeld’s headquarters.  This complete with an iconic shot of Bond sliding over the ice on his stomach, gun in hand, and shooting the villains.  Great stuff.  But more horrible green screen work to follow.  Bond catches up to Blofeld during a bob sled chase and hangs him up in the branches.  The objective seems to be complete.

The final scene is where Bond gets married, and as they are driving away, Blofeld and his hench-women Irma Bunt drive by and shoot at Bond, killing Tracy in the process.  Say what you want about Lazenby’s performance, but his final dialogue to the cop about Tracy is heart wrenching.  Lazenby does a fantastic job grieving the loss of his newlywed, and this would be one of the only consistent pieces of Bond’s backstory that we hear throughout the rest of the series.

OHMSS is a good Bond flick, although it is a bit odd with the plot, the unusual casting choice of Telly Savalas as Blofeld, and Lazenby’s random insertion in the role - it is a very important piece of the Bond puzzle and up until Daniel Craig, we don’t see Bond this full of raw emotion ever again.  It also has lots of fun callbacks to the previous five films with the gadgets he pulls out of his desk, the janitor whistling “Goldfinger”, and even Bond saying before the title sequence “This never happened to the other fellow”, which makes Bond theorists believe that James Bond is just the name given to the man who holds the 007 number.  I’m sure it was just there to call out the elephant in the room and break the ice with the skeptical audience.

As important as this film is to the series this is not one of my favorites given a lot of factors that just bother me.  Lazenby does a hell of a job, but he simply just did not care for the real life Bond lifestyle which caused him to break from the role.  Lazenby was told to present himself as Bond where ever he went to keep the mystique alive, but at the premier, Lazenby showed up with long hair and beard and did not please the studio execs.  Lazenby was just too care-free to be a celebrity, but he does admit that he wished he had knocked some sense into himself back then as it could have made him for the rest of his life.  Instead, he is just a blip on the radar and you have to wonder how the next film would’ve have done with Lazenby at the helm.

We will never know.

That’s all for me, hope you enjoyed it tonight!  Let me know your thoughts!

Reviews from Friends:

My Mom

I’ve decided it’s really hard to follow a high action film like 007 s in two parts. Started it late last night and fell asleep somewhere in the Swiss alps while watching a group of girls getting hypnotized. Who knows maybe I was drawn in to the relaxation technique. Tonight I resumed so it really lost some luster. This James Bond never really filled the role for me. He was kind of sweaty and goofy. Not the cool calm character he is supposed to be. The chases were fun from the Volkswagen bug to the horse drawn sleigh to the bobsled scene. Not to mention the harrowing ski chases amid avalanches. Wow. And of all the choices this girl was THE ONE for James? I did get a better perspective though after reading your review Sam. You are a very detailed critic. Great evaluation.

Dan Perch

Love the review!! Admittingly It took me a long time to watch OHMSS because lack of interest in George Lazenby. However, when I came around to it I fell in love with the movie! It was So (not so) subtly over the top throughout the whole movie. Lazenby was actually pretty good throughout, and certainly had some cringing lines “call me Hilly”😬 haha! From the sweet 1960’s villain pad, the way he smokes his cigarettes, and how he manages to stunningly excel in all winter sports, Telly as Blofeld is my favorite of all time!! (That bobsled gif had me rolling laughing😂 cinematic gold!) He finds a way to ‘best’ Bond at absolutely everything in this one (strong booking) then right when you think Bond goes over... what an ending! Lazenby delivers that line, and the credits start to roll, Had me speechless! One of my favorite movies from the 1960s Telly was the man!

Jake Benrud

LOL. I forgot all about "Zachary Dumbhead". I honestly have never watched this whole movie. Or at least, I didn't remember it. The plot is strange with the hypnotized girls releasing bioterrorism agents. If I were Blofeld, I would have invested in a helicopter to chase down Bond after he escaped instead of going skiing after him myself. Just a thought. There's a lot I didn't know about George Lazenby until I did some searching on him recently. Apparently he never signed a contract during the whole filming of this movie. Unreal. He also didn't want to play ball with the studio with maintaining the look of "James Bond" outside of work after filming. Interesting guy. Devastating ending to the movie, but we all knew that 007 the playboy couldn't stay married for long.

24 Weeks of Bond will return next Monday with - 

You Only Live Twice

[cooperjones2020]

Nobodies Nobody Knows

Summary: She is the lamp in Hero’s tower, the scissors in Delilah’s hand, the blood in Guinevere’s bed. She is a million and one metaphors and all of them are his undoing.

part 1/?

Some of the scenes from Second City but from Jughead's perspective. More a character exercise than a story.

Apparently I have no self-restraint and need to post things as soon as they’re completed, which now means I’m out of pre-written material so stuff may take longer. Also I really wanted to use this title and Algren strikes me as someone Jughead would like.

(ao3->http://archiveofourown.org/works/11434950/chapters/25623927)

By the time Sunday night rolls around, Jughead Jones wants a beer, a shower, and several hours uninterrupted with his Netflix. He has been doing line edits on his new manuscript for ten hours, sitting hunched over his coffee table. Because he’s a grown-ass man and he doesn’t own a desk.

So, more than the beer, the shower, and the Netflix, he wants to grunt and sweat and expend some goddamn energy until his muscles are as tired as his eyes.

But, instead of any of those things — those blessedly simple, easy to satisfy desires — because the universe has a fucking sadistic sense of humor —  he walks into Mary Andrews’s house to find Betty Cooper.

Now that he thinks about it, Mary had looked surprised when she’d opened the door. But he’d pushed his way in and made himself at home the way he’d been doing since he was 19. Mike was expecting him. They had a date with some wood.

It’s not a creepy sex thing. He’s taken up woodworking and furniture restoration.

Expect Mike is in London. Halfway down the hallway, her words stop him cold. “Here, come into the living room, I’m having dinner with Betty.”

“Betty.” He only knows one Betty. “Betty Cooper?” Red alert. SOS. All hands on deck.

“Of course Betty Cooper. Didn’t I tell you she was moving here?”

“No actually, I don’t think you did.” He doesn’t know how much Mary knows, doesn’t know if it’s truly an oversight on her part or if Archie has told her something and she thinks she’s helping him by keeping him in the dark about Betty. If it’s the latter, she is. Or she was, anyway.

But she’s already pushed past him into the living room. There’s nothing else for it.

Betty Cooper is every bit as beautiful as she was ten years ago. More so. And he swears his heart stops in his chest when he rounds the corner and sees her for the first time.

He truly hasn’t seen her since high school. He doesn’t have a facebook, doesn’t follow her on instagram. She may have featured in a few of Archie’s posts over the years, but he’s always told his eyes to slide off of her. To not linger on what he can never have. She looks older. No shit. But more mature, more relaxed. Her neck looks longer and her hair shorter. It is still a beam of sunlight.

Jughead Jones is a writer. And he likes to think he’s at least okay at it. He trades in metaphor and simile, synechdoche and metonym. But his entire life, every time he’s seen her, the only thing that’s shot through him, the only word he’s been able to grab onto and hold is sunlight. The color, the warmth, the feeling.

When she says hello and reaches out a hand, he takes it automatically. Something somewhere in his nervous system is misfiring. He’s pretty sure he says her name.

“Can I get you some food, Jug?”

Ah yes, a distraction. “Always Mary. Do you even have to ask?”

Of course that means Mary turns back to the kitchen, so Jughead is left sitting across from Betty Cooper, staring at her like she’s a goddamn ghost. Betty, forever her mother’s daughter, manages to make small talk.

“Did you say something about a desk?”

“A—? Oh yeah. Mike and I are restoring this turn-of-the-century roll-top desk Mary found at an estate sale. It was gift when The Final Fissure hit the bestseller list.” Idiot. Stop bragging.

But then he notices color creeping her up chest and her eyes slide to the right. Where what he assumes is her purse sits in front of the fireplace with a very familiar cover peaking out of the top. Before he gives himself a chance to think, he picks it up.

“If you ask me if I want an autograph, I’ll clock you.”

“I would never.”

It’s a paperback, and it feels like a pretty new one. The pages are crisp and there’s no crack in the spine. He thumbs through it.

“Why, Betty Cooper, no annotations? I’m shocked.” That’s good, Jug. That’s almost funny.

“Actually—that might be my second copy. I got to the airport way too early and, in a whirlwind of productivity, I’d already shipped all my books here—well not here, cause they’re in Lexington at the moment—but I didn’t have anything to read and I’d already finished the newspaper and it was on display in Hudson’s. I picked it up just to look at but before I knew it you’d sucked me back in. So I bought it so I’d have something to do on the plane.”

There are many threads in that spiel on which he’d like to tug—Lexington?—but at the knowledge that she not only found his writing compelling but found it compelling enough to buy two copies of his book, his heart swells up in his chest and he can’t breathe.

“Hey you don’t have to justify buying my book to me.”

He’d actually thought about sending her a copy, before it first came out. He debates telling her that, just to see how she’d react.

But then Mary returns.

“Here you go, Jug. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Logically, he doesn’t. So he accepts his plate and turns tail for the basement, trying to ignore the ball of string that wants to lead him out of the labyrinth, up the stairs, right to where Betty sits.

So many questions run through Jughead Jones’s mind the first time he sets eyes on Betty Cooper in ten years. But above all he wants to ask her, Who are you now, Betts? How did you get here from there, Betts? What happened to you when I left you? Did you find the strength I always knew you had?

For a while, he loses himself in the slog of paint stripper, sand paper, and power tools. He tries not to think about the fact that they’re almost certainly talking about him. He wants to know what she’s asking Mary. He wants to know what Mary’s telling her. He’s ashamed when he considers creeping up the stairs to listen at the doorway.

When he emerges a few hours later, most of the lights on the first floor have been extinguished. But for the glow creeping its way down the hallway from the kitchen, slipping its fingers into Betty’s hair where she sleeps on the living room couch, an afghan slipping off one shoulder.

He gives himself a moment just to look at her. When the moment passes, he turns and Mary is watching him from the doorway, a mug of tea cupped in her hands.

“How’d it go?” There’s a look in her eyes he can’t quite decipher, but he’d bet his next advance it’s not about his pet project.

“Slow progress. I’m trying not to damage the wood when I remove the old varnish. It’s like the Battle of Verdun but for my patience. When’d you lose Sleeping Beauty over here?

“An hour and half or so ago. I was going to just let her sleep on the couch but I’d forgotten you were here. Maybe you could carry her upstairs.” Everything inside him screams out yes: yes, take her in your arms again; yes, press your cheek to her hair; yes, match the rhythm of her heartbeat to yours. But everything also screams out no: no, don’t torture yourself; no, she wouldn’t want it; no, you have no right. The two everythings wrench him apart.

But then, before he can respond: “I’m awake!” And so she is.

“Hey Pippi Longstocking.” He wonders how many more mediocre movie references he can jam into tonight.

“Betty, you’re welcome to sleep in the guest room upstairs. But if you want to go home, I’m sure Jughead can take you.” His stomach twists in two different directions again.

“Oh no that’s alright, Mary. I can just take the L.” Like hell she can.

“No, Betty, you’re not riding the red line home by yourself this late at night.” He is not being a caveman. He would say that to anyone. Hell, he wouldn’t ride the red line at midnight by himself. Especially not if there’s been a game tonight — which he thinks there has been. And he looks scary. He has a leather jacket!

“Jug’s right, honey. It’s not safe and you’re so new to the city anyway. Let him take you home.”

He’s not quite sure how, because he can tell she doesn’t want to, but Mary somehow convinces her. He tries to mentally prepare himself to have her on the back of his bike, touching him, a twisted version of his sixteen-year-old self’s fantasy come to life.

When Mary has kissed his helmet and vanished back into the house, he asks, “So where to, Miss Daisy?” Update: the answer is one. One more mediocre movie reference.

She names an address near the Newberry. “Of course you live in River North.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask me again in a month if you haven’t figured it out.” Stupid. Betty in Chicago is not equal to Betty in his life. He will not try to parse whether this is a fantasy or a nightmare. He will not let himself hope. Hope is not for people like him.

“And where do you live?”

“In Logan Square. And before you say anything, I lived there before the hipsters moved in.” More stupid. She’ll definitely latch onto that.

She does. “Really? Before the hipsters moved in? Well okay then. By all means, continue to proselytize on the ills of gentrification.”

He snaps his visor shut and swings a leg over the bike.

He takes her down Lake Shore Drive though it’s slightly out of the way, so they can enjoy the juxtaposition of the city lights and the deep, dark lake. In the night air, her arms burn where they touch his chest.

When they get to her building, she awkwardly climbs off and he stows the helmet in a saddlebag.

Then she touches him. “Thanks, Juggie.”

He sucks in a breath. He feels the point of contact, the nickname, zing through his system. She, too, seems to realize what she’s done.

He can’t help himself. He slides a hand down her arm, cupping her elbow, before bringing it to rest atop hers. He lifts it and squeezes, says, “Night Betts.”

“Night.” He watches her slip into her building, then kicks the bike to life and roars away. He takes the corner as sharply as he can get away with and heads toward the expressway.

[je-refuse-de-couler]

An Analysis of You

It has almost been a year since we broke up, almost a year since you moved out and told me how you wished things were different. Almost a year since I told you that I loved you.

When we broke up I was completely devastated. The man that I thought was my soul mate, the man I was meant to spend the rest of my life with, the man who told me he would never leave, left. I was suddenly alone in an empty apartment, struggling to come to terms with the abandonment and heartache I felt.

It was a heart-wrenching year but I picked myself up and began to move on. I became more confident, I began to take on more responsibility at work and I actually made a group of friends who I spent most of my time with. All of a sudden, I wasn’t just dealing with the break up, I was thriving in it.  

I was actually doing better than I had before I met you. I was truly myself, or, rather, a supreme version of myself that I never thought was possible. I was working out, I was going on dates, I was inspired to write again and I was pursuing all of the things that had once gathered dust on my do-to list. I was thriving in all senses of the word.

Which led me to contemplate, why was I thriving without you? I had once thought that our relationship was perfect, so why is it that without our relationship I am actually doing the best I have ever done? Was I missing something?

Indeed, I was. Sometimes you have to take a step back from something to realize how awful it had truly been. The man I thought was my soul mate was actually draining me, isolating me from others and wearing me down to the bone. After taking a step back, I’ve realized the 9 reasons why:

You were addicted to video games. I know what you are thinking: “Addicted? Isn’t that a little melodramatic, Kaitlynn?” Well, it would be, if it weren’t true. But I’ve done the research, I’ve seen the symptoms. And darling, you were the definition of addicted. You isolated yourself to spend time on the computer. When you weren’t sleeping, you were playing video games. Often during the only hours that we could spend time together. You refused to make any friends in the city that weren’t associated with video games (or at all for that matter). You spent hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on upgrading your system. VR, headsets, speakers, you name it. But you wouldn’t put a penny into helping out around the house. To you, the computer was all that mattered. You didn’t explore the city, you didn’t spend time with anyone new. You spent all of your free time attached to the keyboard. And now I know what you are going to say: “It’s just a hobby! What’s wrong with that?” Yes, videogames are a great hobby to have. It’s beautiful storytelling and can often be quite entertaining. But a hobby doesn’t take away from your life, they can only add to it. But videogames took away from your life. Well, actually, they became your life. If you weren’t spending time at your computer, you were thinking about spending time at your computer. Our sex life, our relationship, household chores, they all fell aside to your video game addiction. If I finally managed to get you out of the house you were thinking about how to get back in the house. Nights were spent with me going to bed alone, watching the glow from the computer screen dance across the floor.

Your mother. It was no secret that I didn’t get along with your mother. She was a difficult personality, even you admitted she was “crazy,” but it was a personality that I was determined to cope with for you. But there was no coping with her, there was only giving her what she wanted. When she demanded that we spend Christmas with her, no discussion, I conceded. When she told me that my religion didn’t matter, I kept my lips closed. When she told me that renting was “different 20 years ago in DC” and I obviously haven’t done my research on Boston renting, I politely showed her the pages and pages of proof showing her otherwise. When she told us that we couldn’t share a bank account, I nodded. When she sent you an email saying that me having guy friends was equivalent to “emotional cheating” I felt a piece of me break. When she told me that she resented me because you were moving here to Boston, I cried. When she scheduled a brunch right smack in the middle of my college graduation, I drove you straight there after it was over in time to see all of the relatives you would see the following week anyway. When she told you that she cried because you weren’t at the Bills game with her, I bowed my head. And when she kept asking you when you were moving home, I bit my tongue. And when she set you up with a girl three weeks after we broke up, I drank an entire bottle of wine. No matter what, she will always be the most important woman in your life. And her controlling, demeaning and unwavering personality is one that will never be able to be “coped with.” She wasn’t happy unless she had her way. And you were determined to always give her what she wanted. There was no room in your heart for two women. And like your family motto says, “If mamma ain’t happy, no one is happy.”

Your family. I actually loved your father, sister and her husband. They weren’t people that I was used to, but they were accepting of me and I of them (or so I thought). It wasn’t until you told me that you couldn’t live more than two hours away from your family at all times that I realized how dependent you were on them. I love my family, I’m close with them, but I’m in no way completely dependent on them. But you were different. Your life is completely shaped by your family which left no room for a life of our own. To you, it was always a discussion about your family, never mine—never ours. You were thinking singularly, or in a unit of four, while I was thinking about us. Compromise wasn’t ever on the table when it came to your family. You had to live next to them. And if they ever moved, you would follow in a heartbeat. This left no room for discussion, compromise or partnership. It was your way or else. So it was else.

You were lazy. Laziness can be a wonderful, nice escape after a long work week or a hectic day. Who doesn’t love sitting on the couch, drinking a beer and relaxing? But your laziness became a major personality trait. You lost all interest in doing anything else besides video games and Netflix. Going out? Never. Walking around the block? I wish! I couldn’t ever get you to take a step outside, let alone do anything else with me. It was as if you had given up completely. Maybe you were depressed or maybe you were just done impressing me. But either way, your personality disappeared. You were reluctant to make plans or even suggest anything other than going to the movies. The carefree, happy Tim that I fell in love with wouldn’t get off of the couch unless I begged. And, even then, would sulk until we returned home. No longer did you want to explore new places or go on adventures or even check off a small item on our bucket list. You were done. You had given up. You were content to live within the four corners of the living room. You made me feel horrible for even suggesting that we go sit in the park, twenty steps from our back door. And maybe this was, in part, due to your night shift schedule. Maybe you had a hard time adjusting, maybe you really were tired. But you refused to switch to day shifts because night shifts were “easier.” During the night, you had no supervision. You could be on your phone all night and no one would stop you. Sure, you worked but you enjoyed not having to work hard. You enjoyed the easy money. It didn’t matter that your schedule was impacting everything else in your life...as long as it was easy. Looking back, I’m not sure how I tolerated your laziness for so long. After a while, I stopped asking you to go out with me, I stopped making the first move. I resigned myself to what I hoped would be a phase. Sex was down to once every other week, if that. You never initiated, you constantly turned me down and made me feel self-conscious. You would turn to the couch instead, choosing to fall asleep there rather than next to me. Intimacy was lost to perpetual laziness.

You tried to isolate me. I think a major part of why you tried to isolate me had to do with your own imposed seclusion. I was making friends—you weren’t. And you hated that, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself.  So you would pester me about making friends, tell me that the guy friends I had come to see as brothers were just waiting for the opportunity to slink their way into my pants (they never did, by the way). You told me that guys and girls could never be friends and that you would “never marry a girl who had guy friends.” It was a veiled threat, but one that stung nonetheless. So what about girl friends? Or couple friends? See, you had issues with them too. You didn’t want to hang out with Julia and Ian because of that one time Ian invited someone else to join us at the Vermont house. Was it rude? Perhaps. But it was also an opportunity for you to make an additional guy friend. But what did you do? You sulked away in the bedroom and dragged me along with you, isolating us from the crowd. I couldn’t beg you anymore to rejoin them, you had made up your mind. You also didn’t like me going out with my improv friends, even on nights that you were working. It didn’t matter to you that there were girls mixed into that group, it only mattered that there were guys there too who “didn’t like me for me”. Oh no, they were just “waiting for an opportunity.” You made me feel so low, Tim. You would point out any flaws about the girl friends I did make and refuse to meet any of the guy friends I had grown close with. I thought that, just maybe, if you would meet them, you would feel ok with me hanging out with them. But you refused. And the one time you finally agreed, you got blackout drunk, falling asleep in the corner of the room while we watched the super bowl. I had to apologize to my friends, telling them that I’m sorry but you weren’t usually like that. Which was true. Back in Syracuse you had been so different. We actually had a group of friends and you were warm to every one of them. So what changed? Why were you so against meeting people who weren’t attached to your computer? Why did you try to take me down with you?

You took me for granted. Relationships are never easy. At one point or another the work load shifts and one partner ends up leading the other, lifting the weight on their own back. But that is never supposed to last long. Couples are supposed to share the weight, share the work—compromise with one another. But you were never one for compromise. When we moved to Boston you were having a hard time adjusting so it was my turn to bear the weight. I handled the housework, cooking, cleaning, decorating, planning, etc. I took the weight that should be evenly distributed and placed it all on my back. I was trying to help you, trying to give you enough space and breathing room to adjust. I knew the transition wouldn’t be quick, but I had always thought that you would eventually try to lighten my load. I thought that you would take some of the weight off and help me or at least offer to compensate in other ways. But that day never came. Instead, I was left hunched over with a mountain on top of me as you sat at your computer, thinking of only you. No matter how often I asked or in how many ways I expressed my pain, you never leaned over to take some of the weight. You were crushing me, Tim. When I took on doing the laundry for us both you never offered to help. And, if you finally did pull yourself away from the computer long enough to help carry the basket, you complained. You told me I was doing the laundry wrong, that the house wasn’t clean enough, etc., etc., etc. Once you had angrily agreed to carry down the heavy basket with me to the basement. There you criticized me as I loaded the laundry, telling me how it was still damp. You then left before I was done, slinking back to your computer. I carried the entire three loads myself up the four flights, tears stinging my eyes. And when I spent all day cooking Easter dinner while you slept, you barely said a word to me while we ate. You just shoved the food down your mouth while every conversation I started was met with gruff silence or grunts. You didn’t even see me cry over my plate because you wouldn’t take your eyes off of yours. Every plan that we had, it was my idea. You only once or twice suggested we go out and do something. You hardly ever planned anything or told me that you were proud of me. Even when I bought you an expensive pair of sneakers as a surprise gift, you told me you didn’t like them. You could have just pretended. Jesus, you could have at least said “thank you.” But you never did. Even when I got a promotion at work I had to beg you to do something with me to celebrate. And that’s the thing right there: I would have to ask you to appreciate me. I would actually have to ask you to think of me, for once. Just for once!! Because you didn’t think of me when you lived here; you thought of only yourself. You even said once that I’m not your “mother” so I should stop everything that I was doing. But you never stepped up to the plate to help. If I didn’t do something, it wouldn’t get done. I even tried it for a week. I didn’t do dishes, I didn’t clean, I didn’t ask you to make plans. So what happened? It didn’t get done. Dishes piled up, laundry went undone and you never tore yourself away from the computer. And God, how many times did I ask you to help me? How many times did I tell you how I wanted us to be a partnership? I lost count. You didn’t listen to me, Tim. You never listened to me. I was so unhappy, so overstressed and so tired of being taken for granted. You never stepped up to the plate. You never said “thank you.” After a year and a half of living together, you never even attempted to carry your load and you never tried to compensate in any other way. You told me once, as we were walking down the street, that you were surprised that I didn’t resent you for how little you did for us. I smiled and squeezed your hand, telling you how much I loved you, how I could never ever resent you. But I did, darling. I did. A partnership requires two people, not one. And I was left alone—and I will always resent you for that. 

You left me to put down our pet on my own. Of course this is after we broke up and after you moved out. But it speaks volumes to your character and the depths to which our relationship had plummeted in your eyes. When we broke up Piper became very ill. It would have been symbolic if it wasn’t so heart-wrenching. We had purchased Piper on somewhat of an impulsive whim. We drove five hours to pick up the hedgehog from a breeder with a heavy New York accent. Giddy and flushed with love, we took her home and read up all we good on proper hedgehog care. It was like a crash course in parenting. And we loved it. So when she got sick, we became concerned parents once more. After blaming me for not catching the illness earlier, you did drive with me and stay with me at the vet. Despite it being 2:00 am, you stayed with me. We talked about your job opportunities in Charlotte as we held Piper close. She looked so thin, so small under the harsh fluorescent light. You held my hand and told me it would be ok. The medicine didn’t help her and she steadily got worse. So when I told you that I believed it was time to put her down you only supported my decision. “It’s the right thing to do,” you said. Of course, but that didn’t make it any easier. You were back in Charlotte at this point and I had already been alone with her for a month. She could no longer walk so I held her each night and fed her through a syringe. It was time. I told you I would be putting her down over the weekend and you asserted your agreement, telling me that you would be on the phone with me when it came time so I wouldn’t have to do it alone. That made me feel better, if only slightly. So when the day came I told you when it would be happening. I gave you plenty of warning and told you I would call you when it was about to happen. Silence. No response. I went to the clinic with Piper and held her close to my chest, occasionally checking my phone to see if you had responded. You hadn’t. “It’s time, can I call?” Silence. I swallowed hard and allowed the doctor to put the first dose of medicine in her veins. They told me it would make her calm, “so she wouldn’t feel a thing.” That’s when I started calling you—and that’s when you ignored me. When the vet asked if I was ready I nearly choked on my tears and stuttered that I was trying to get the other owner on the line but he wouldn’t pick up. I could see the pity in her eyes. She knew that you wouldn’t pick up. I guess a part of me knew too. The vet was nice; she patted my head and gave me more time to reach you. I called you again, and again, and again. Nothing. I texted you again, and again, and again. Still nothing. Finally the vet told me that she couldn’t wait any longer. So I wrapped Piper in her favorite blanket and handed her over. The vet walked out of the room and I was left in the room, waiting for your call. It didn’t come when the vet returned Piper’s body to me. It didn’t come when I ordered the cab and stared out the window with Piper’s body on my lap. It didn’t come when I came back to the dark apartment. It didn’t come when I pulled back the blanket to see her lifeless, still warm form. It didn’t come when I hopped the park fence and buried her by the light of my phone in the crisp October darkness. It didn’t come when I returned to the apartment and washed the dirt from my hands. And it still hadn’t come when I sent you one, final text: “I just buried Piper. I didn’t deserve what you did. Piper didn’t deserve it either.” Immediately my phone dinged with a text from you. You thanked me for handling it and told me that Piper would appreciate what I had done. I nearly broke when I saw that. A small, tiny part of me had hoped that your phone was broken or that you were too busy to call me. But no, you had simply been ignoring me. Maybe it was too hard for you to speak to me, maybe you were with her, or maybe you didn’t care enough about me or Piper to spend ten minutes on the phone. I don’t know why you didn’t keep your promise and I doubt you will ever give me an answer. All that matters is that I found out that day that you are not, and never were, a man of your word.

Her.  You met her three weeks after we broke up. You were 25 and she 20. I’m pretty sure your mom introduced you. You began dating her just 13 days after you moved out of our apartment in October, after you told me that you wished things were different. It was the last time I saw you, the last time I heard your voice. I hadn’t imagined that you would begin dating someone else so soon but I guess I hadn’t imagined that we would ever end either. The heartbreak I felt when you told me you would be dating her cannot compare to anything else I have ever felt. I was at work when I noticed we were no longer friends on Facebook. You hadn’t even been able to keep that promise either, I guess. When I messaged you and asked why you simply said you thought it would be best if we weren’t friends. When I pressed you, you told me that you would be dating someone soon. I remember the way my face flushed red, I remember how I ran to the bathroom and threw up the contents of my breakfast. I remember the ringing in my ears and the feeling of my heart breaking in two. Because there were only two options for you to be entering a relationship so soon: either you really were over me so quickly or that you were using her to get over me, much like you did with Carly. I’m not sure which option is worse.

Oblivion. Not long after that, you cut me out of your life completely. You blocked my number, blocked my messages on Facebook and ignored me completely and utterly. I was nothing to you. I often asked myself what had I done to deserve such loathing from you, such oblivion. But I doubt I’ll ever even hear from you again. And that complete clarity hurts more than the answers ever would.

So what was it that sparked these reasons for our demise? Was it our move to Boston? Was it depression? Or maybe you were already this way and you simply couldn’t hide it anymore from me? Or, more likely, the man who broke up with me is not the man I fell in love with. I met two Timothy Schroeders. One was kind, caring and thoughtful. The other was selfish, immature and resentful. One lived in Syracuse; the other Boston. Duplicity can never last long.

It doesn’t matter what started the end, it only matters what became of it. You moved home, moved on and you are right there next to your family, just how you wanted. I ended up moving on too, at a much slower rate, but on I moved. I found a way to pay half of my rent so I could keep the place I loved.  I redecorated, I made new friends and I began to pursue aspects of myself that I had lost when we moved to Boston. Our lives are no longer intertwined. And some days, rare days, you don’t even cross my mind at all.

It’s been a year. A horribly painful, wonderful year. And after it all, I don’t hate you. You showed me what love has the capacity to be like and you’ve proven that, after everything, it is always worth it. No matter how bad it got, no matter how close we came to nearly destroying each other, I’m glad we dated. I’m glad I met you. The memories of our year and a half in Syracuse make up for the year and a half of bad memories in Boston. Love cannot exist without agony. 

I could never trade in the memory of us watching the thunderstorm from your deck, a bottle of wine perched between us. Or the memory of you telling me you loved me for the first time on the worn out leather couch in Al’s. I could never forget the memory of you teaching me how to drive stick in the middle of a blizzard, our noses red with laughter and cold. Nor would I trade in the night of our breakup, the rush of blood in my ears as you told me you had to move “home.” Home to me had always been where you were but you didn’t share the same definition. You hadn’t for a while.

 No matter the pain, no matter the tears, it was all worth it. Knowing you was worth it. So I write this analysis not to blame you (for I’m sure you have your own list of all that I have done to you) but as a way to move past us. I will cherish the memories that we had, but they are just that—memories.

 Nothing more, nothing less.