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jasonwhithamauthor · 22 days ago

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Turn and Burn Mercy (Part 4)

“Rise and shine!”

The proclamation startled me awake. There was an immediate stinging pain, the same tear-inducing torment as the day before.

“Ahhh!” I complained, trying to shield myself with my arms and the blanket.

“No, no, no, Sir. Says here you need thirty minutes every morning before breakfast from now on,” announced the voice, apparently an attendant with no bedside manner, reading instructions from one of their tablets. He was certainly not a benevolent angel sent from God. How this mere mortal didn’t feel the need to introduce himself and felt perfectly comfortable entering my room and tugging my light-shielding blanket away greatly perplexed my more common senses.

“Why is this needed?” I demanded. “I had one of these so-called treatments yesterday.”

“Regrettably, I’m not a genius AI billionaire, but rest assured, Mr. Crouch, the Thrashes have extremely high success rates.”

Suddenly, a hard plastic cuff was attached to my right arm, then my left arm, and they were yanked apart and down to my sides.

“Ah, stop!” I barked. My whole body was lurched back and pinned to the bed, tightened like a shoelace.

I immediately made my feelings known about this constraint after realizing I was immobilized down to my midsection. “Well, the good news is that I believe I have a healthy, plentiful amount of pee. The bad news is that my arms seem to be restricted, and I’m stuck to this bed. Could you kindly pull down my pants and align your face with my stream?” I was proud of the calm restraint of my tone and a ten-out-of-ten snarky delivery, considering the circumstances and because I’m not much of a morning person anyway.

“Ha. I heard you were funny. Do you also like to laugh?”

“I’m into it, specifically the kind of laugh that makes people question my sanity.”

“Mmm, okay.” I think I heard him write something on his tablet. “Well, good news, you’re scheduled for some laughter yoga today.”

“I don’t exercise,” I replied sternly. “What else?”

“Activities, really, nothing here is optional, Mr. Crouch. It’s part of the deal you signed up for when you came here.” He insisted, “You will be doing outdoor laughter yoga, acupuncture with essential oils and soothing music, and art analysis today.”

Being in captivity because I never earned enough money to go to a normal hospital was humiliating, and not knowing how much more quackery I would need to endure before they would set me free was fretful. I became increasingly depressed during the 30-minute cornea-burning session.

“Can I just speak with someone?” I had to catch myself, afraid I might start crying in front of this attendant.

“Someone?” He challenged.

“Yeah, to explain whatever it is I have… why I have to... I mean, what these procedures are for?”

“No. I know you were given the opportunity to talk to a molecular nutritionist, but patients don’t normally get to speak with doctors at these facilities. It makes things more streamlined.”

“It would help a lot if I could…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crouch, but my tablet indicates that further communication with the doctors is prohibited.”

I realized I did this to myself, arguing with the molecular nutritionist. At the time, there didn’t seem to be any harm in letting off some clever quips in the fight for dignity. The guy wasn’t going to let me have any tasty food anyway.

“Jeez. Can’t anyone take a joke?” I complained, voice cracking. How embarrassing.

“Joke? Says here that you verbally abused him?”

“No, no. I mean, I cursed but…”

“Well, there’s your answer. We just don’t have time for that kind of belligerent and unruly behavior. Now, get up,” he demanded, “It’s time to eat your smoothie.”

The confirmation that I screwed myself made me feel exceedingly despondent. Hopelessness quickly gripped me, like when I tried to argue with my former boss to keep me on, even just for a couple more months. Seemed like it was yesterday, but it had now happened nearly half a year ago. With no will to fight, I held my nose and poured the pond-scum smoothie down the hatch and complied with the attendant’s other orders.

How humiliating it was to be doing stretching exercises in tight-fitting spandex. While uniformly donned by all the yoga participants, self-esteem was not. I knew my finest points were not the high-definition shapes that the material revealed.

Furthermore, the roaming attendants wouldn’t just come close and describe how we should correct or improve our yoga poses. No, they would touch our legs, arms, backs… press, hold, and force us into deeper stretches. Attendant Ralph seemed like he was on top of me the whole session.

And, oh, God! I wanted Him to end my misery with a rapid neck twist when I heard the instructor’s jokes. One of them was, “What did one ocean say to the other? Nothing. They just waved.” Ugh, the roars she got from her corny jokes were unbelievable. I was briefly grateful when a short Chinese man led me away to my next activity.

“Sit hee-ah, sit hee-ah,” he commanded with a heavy accent and a finger pointed to a padded table. Once I figured out what he was saying, I sat down on it.

Then, he looked deep into my eyes and ordered, "Open yoah mouth weed and steek aht yoah tong."

“Why?”

“Do ahz I seh.”

I did, and with lightning-fast reflexes, he grabbed my tongue.

My reflex was to try and grab his hand, but he swatted mine away. "Noh, I moost chek."

After some time of him rubbing and holding it, I started to get worried.

Then, he instructed, “Yoo lie down. Ree-lax.”

“Wha… What’s that in your hand?” I stuttered nervously, noticing something that looked potentially very painful.

"Uh tin stair-uhl nee-dull. Yoo noh woh-ree. Yoo feel ohn-lee a ting-luh. Juhst kloh-suh yohr ahys. Lie back."

I couldn’t though. “Where are you going to stick those?” I asked.

"Es-tee three-six, El one, El fourteen, Es-pee six, Gee-vee twenty, El-vee three… meh-nee poynts." He was pointing all along my stomach.

“Why though?”

"Eet foh yor Qi."

“My cheek, too?”

“Noh, yor Qi,” he corrected.

“What is that?”

Now holding up the threatening needle, he barked like a man of much greater stature, "Eh-nuff kwest-shunz. Yoo lee bahk aw yoo noh leek soh much. Lee bahk. Lee bahk.”

Intimidated, I lied back and squeezed my eyes, bracing myself for the pain.

There was just a slight prick. Then, another. Then, another. I peeked to discover the long needles sticking out of me. The man had another in his hand and looked like he was about to stick me again. I flinched. He turned and glared. “Noh. Kloh-suh yohr ahys. Kloh-suh yohr ahys. Tirty meen-its. Tirty meen-its.”

I started feeling some sensations of heaviness, warmth, and tingling at the needle sites. I wasn’t sure what the effect was supposed to be, but it wasn’t too bad.

The scent of lavender became very heavy a few minutes after all the needles were in. There was also a piney citrusy aroma that reminded me of a chicken dish my mother used to make. This helped me calm down some.

#scifi #comedy #ai #acupuncture #yoga #robots #madenotbegotten #women #future #short story #science #reader

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abishekmuses · 11 months ago

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240 Day Challenge - Super-Brain Yoga, Writing and Core Workouts

In my previous post, I'd spoken about how I'm a big believer in the daily streak - doing something every day, without fail - building a chain - forming a habit - and then using that momentum to drive lasting change. This is something that I picked up from the hugely popular book, Atomic Habits, by James Clear. I decided to take up this whole idea of doing something for a seemingly trivial amount of time - but every single day - mostly because, I was a recovering addict and overall lazy, waste-man kind of guy who simply lacked the perseverance or mental focus to do anything intense to see results over a short period of time.

The lazy prick that I was, I found the idea that I could get ripped by just showing up at the gym every day and staying there for 5 minutes every day, extremely compelling.

Funnily enough, I started with exercising when I first decided to experiment with the streak thing - however, close to three years since I first started experimenting with microhabits, I still haven't really had a major streak with working out.

I've had a few minor ones - but nothing that lasted more than couple of months. In November I decided to do a 6 month streak of Angamardana but skipped some 3 or 4 days in between in the 3rd month. Then, I injured my back playing badminton and had to skip the better part of 2 weeks. I'm back on Angamardana though and intend to keep it up for 6 more months to make good on the promise. Anyway, like i said earlier, I've been having a difficult time stitching together a nice streak when it comes to exercise - something that I've really intended to work into my life in a big way; My fitness is not something I'm proud of and I've been intent on setting it right for quite a number of years now, albeit unsuccessfully.

Two days ago, almost on a whim, I decided to write a couple of posts on the internet. That gave me an idea - why not write everyday? - use the streak hack to get good at writing. After all, the same principle should hold true right? If I do it everyday and keep doing it no matter what, I should be much better at it after a while - no matter how unlikely it seems. So, I decided to do it! But I was feeling so pumped that day that just writing wasn't enough - I needed to add more stuff.

I pulled out an A4 sheet and made rows and columns. The idea was to colour the boxes green for everyday that I kept the streak alive. The conditions for success that I set up in my manic state were - 1. 1 cycle of Angamardana 2. At least 21 Thoppukaranams (Super Brain Yoga) - for those who don't know, this is a hindu exercise, often performed to the deity Ganesha as a sort of gesture of repentance or apology- i find it funny that it's called super brain yoga actually - apparently, it boosts brain power and increases communication between the brain hemispheres. Here's what it looks like

3. Write at least 750 words of my own or 500 words for work - 4. Work out my core by doing a 1 min plank or a 15 min core workout. These were the conditions I had to fulfill to colour my box in green. Once I was done creating the chart, I did an approximate count of the boxes and it was around 240 - so 240 it was! The idea is to keep up these daily activities for 240 days no matter what. I'm on day 3 and with this post, I've finished all my assigned tasks for the day. I'm going to colour my box green now. This is what my chart looks like by the way.

#STREAK

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karalovesallthegirls · 3 years ago

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time travel + I didn’t mean to turn you on

hello my love thank you for your request I wrote a bunch solely because I'm in love with you

Life is nothing if not consistent for Lena Luthor. She wakes at the same hour every single day, does an hour of stretches and exercise, eats the same egg white omelet. She’s the first to the office and the last to leave. Every moment is structured and accounted for, allowing Lena maximum control and regulation. Just the way she likes it.

And then, one day as she was stretching deep into a downward dog, her new life path came crashing down through her crystal glass coffee table.

One moment she’s thinking about the meeting she has in an hour and the next she’s flinching away from a spray of glass raining down overhead. She curls in on herself with a yelp, terrified and frozen at the sudden explosion beside her. After the clattering of glass had stopped, she’s left in dead silence. With a deep breath for confidence, she finally works up the nerve to look.

Collapsed over the metal frame of what had been her table lay some woman she had never seen before in her life, knocked out and bleeding all over her Persian rug.

Lena feels herself clicking into survival mode at the sight of her. She’s always been good at that – surviving. No one can keep a clearer head in a crisis than Lena. The initial fear now replaced with adrenaline and clarity, Lena jumps into action. Years of Pilates and daily weight-lifting aides her as she pulls the bloody woman off the twisted frame, dragging her over to her yoga mat. The woman is out cold.

She’s got glass stuck in all kinds of places, the worst of which seems to be a long, jagged piece stuck in her thigh. Lena knows better than to try and pull that one out, so she instead focuses on tying her sweatshirt around the woman’s thigh to try and stave the bleeding. It looks like it might be in a dangerous spot, possibly close to an artery, and the last thing Lena needs is some home invader dying on her living room floor. The press would have a field day with that.

While working to stabilize the rush of bleeding from her thigh, Lena shouted out, “HOPE, call emergency services.” HOPE, her omnipresent homemade helper, replied back from the speaker located just above. “Yes, Miss Luthor. Police, fire, or EMT?”

“EMT and pol-” she’s cut off by two hands on her at once: one covering her mouth forcefully and the other pressing a large glass chunk to her throat right at the jugular vein. She freezes.

Apparently, the unconscious intruder was more conscious than she thought. “Tell her to cancel it,” the woman says with a hoarse, pained voice. Lena watches her with a calculating eye, weighing her option. If she didn’t respond to HOPE in the next few moments, she knew her virtual assistant would call the police automatically. “It’ll take them, what, 5 minutes to get here? Maybe 10 with traffic. You’ll bleed out in seconds and I’ll be long gone before they even get close,” the woman says, “Nobody has to die today, okay? Cancel it.”

Her mind reels for alternatives, but the woman presses the glass harder against her throat, hard enough to cut, and her mind is made up. She nods, and hesitantly the other woman removes her hand from her mouth. “Cancel request, HOPE,” Lena says, voice surprisingly steady for someone in such a situation. “Request successfully cancelled,” HOPE chirped happily before shutting off.

The other woman sighs, the glass held to Lena’s neck slacking just a bit as she leans backwards. Lena can feel the way it pulls at her skin, how blood starts to trickle. She keeps her hands where they’ve been this entire time – pressing hard around the glass in the woman’s thigh. She’s bleeding a lot, even with the pressure Lena’s applying. “That was foolish,” Lena says, pulling away from the woman. “The EMT was for you. You’re bleeding too much too quickly, I think you nicked your femoral artery.” The woman laughs, laid back eyes closed like she’s not invading her house and threatening her life. “That’s right, you had medical training. I forgot about that,” the other woman says, pulling herself up into a half-sit and looking down at her injuries with a curious eye. “In my defense, they barely mention that in the history books.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” The woman just shakes her head.

“What day is it?” she asks. Lena is tired of this already. She’s supposed to be showering right now and preparing to leave for work, not negotiating with a half-dead possible hostage-taker. “Tuesday. March 13th.”

“What year?” “Is that a joke?” “Yeah,” the woman smiled, a hint of blood on her teeth. “Humor me.” “2018.”

The smile fades fast, replaced with a sudden alarm. As if the year were somehow worse than the giant piece of glass sticking from her thigh. “That’s way too early,” she says, hints of panic in her voice. “They dropped me way too far back. Crap.”

Her face looks pale and grows paler by the minute. Lena looks down to see the cloth she’d tied around her thigh fully saturated, the puddle beneath her growing. She’s losing too much blood. “Put the glass down and give me your hands,” Lena says, but the woman doesn’t move. Frustrated, Lena grabs her hands with her bloody ones and presses them just above the glass. “Hold here,” she says, and then gets up to leave.

Lena races to her bathroom, ignoring the woman’s shout of “Wait! Come back here!” and rifles around until she finds what she’s looking for. She comes back with a field medic kit and lays it on the ground. The other woman watches her wearily, hands still pressed to the wound. “You’re bleeding too fast,” Lena says, “and at this point you’ll be dead before the ambulance can arrive. We have to stop the bleeding.”

The woman doesn’t resist. At this point she might not have the strength to. Lena uses shears to cut up the seam of the the the woman’s pants, up and past the deep gash of the glass shard. “This is bad,” she says, and the woman doesn’t even look. “It’s too early,” the woman is saying, sounding weak, and Lena pulls supplies from her kit. She ties a tight tourniquet, earning a shocked groan of pain. “This is temporary, it can only be temporary. It should buy you a little time but it’s going to hurt like hell and if it’s on too long you could lose the leg.” “Fine, it’s fine,” the other woman says, almost delirious, and she grabs Lena’s shirt to pull her attention. “Listen to me,” she says, eyes wide and bloodshot, “Your brother is going to destroy the world, and you’re going to help him. But you don’t have to. You don’t have to help him, okay?” She’s practically incoherent. The blood has stopped but it’s still everywhere and Lena is covered in it. “They’re calling me,” the woman continues, shaking her head, “I’ll come back, or they’ll send someone else, but you have to stop him, Lena Luthor. Non Nocere-”

And then she vanishes.

One minute, Lena is wrapped around a delirious, halfway bled-out home invader, and the next she’s alone in her living room surrounded by glass and blood.

- She’s much more prepared the next time the stranger comes. To her credit, she’s had a few years by then to obsess and analyze and research. She’s watched the security footage of that day so many times and in such excruciating detail that she could tell you how many pieces of glass were shattered, how many gasps the intruder let out in pain. She could recite the entire five-minute experience from start to finish with perfect accuracy. Yet she could never explain it.

She can infer the basic gist of it, of course: at some point, time travel becomes a possibility, and the best possible use of that unbelievable advancement is to come back and stop her, because something she does – or rather, something she helps Lex do – is so catastrophically horrible it’s world ending.

She’s tried to find this woman, though of course if she’s a time traveler she may not even exist yet. There’s no way to know. Lena’s spent months studying the footage she has of her, noting the militaristic jumpsuit she wore, the strange patches for organizations that don’t seem to exist adorning the sleeve. She’s made note of the scars she can see – the long one that dances down her face, the smaller ones made visible when her pant leg was cut. The woman had clearly endured hell in life, and that hell had led her to Lena’s penthouse. She felt a sick nervousness just thinking about how they might link.

All of that to say, Lena is much more prepared when the woman returned, at least on an intellectual level. She’s not so prepared for the woman to show up as she’s sitting post-shower on her bed in nothing but a silk robe.

One minute she’s sitting alone, the next a woman is crashing on top of her. Their heads bonk together hard at the force of it, Lena reeling back against her pillow with a groan. At least she’s a softer landing than glass and metal.

“Ah crap,” the woman says, and there’s an instant spark of excitement in Lena at just the sound of her voice. She’d listened to that tape so many times it’s burned into her psyche but hearing it now in person after so long – absolutely thrilling.

“Thank you for not breaking any furniture this time,” Lena says, and her voice is a bit breathy from the rush of it. The other woman pulls up from where she’d collapsed against her and seems to finally realize where she is and just how little Lena actually has on. She practically flings herself off of her and on to the floor with a shout.

“Oh wow,” the woman says, mouth agape and face beet red. “I- I’m so sorry, there’s no way to know what you’ll be doing when I get here and I just, I didn’t realize you weren’t done getting dressed or… that wasn’t… I’ll just-”

“Wait in the hallway?” Lena asks, amused. This version of the stranger is such a funny leap from the way she was all those years before, yet exactly the same. It’s like she hadn’t aged much at all. “I was finishing my bedtime routine and I sleep naked. This is as dressed as I’ll be the rest of the night.”

Somehow, the woman’s face gets even redder. It reminds Lena of the blood from that day, how dark and covering it had been on her. That takes a bit of wind out of her sails.

“How’s the leg?” she asks, sitting back. She can feel her robe fall open slightly but left it be. It's amusing to see how nervously the other woman’s eyes dart around looking everywhere but her.

“Still sore,” the woman finally says, pulling herself up to sit on the end of Lena’s bed. She glances at her and then looks away. “It’s only been a few weeks for me, so it’s not close to healed yet, but I didn’t lose the leg or my life, thanks to you.” “Glad to hear it.” “Are you?”

“Mmhm. If you’d died that day, I wouldn’t have this chance now to ask you what the hell is going on.” The woman is watching her in a strange sort of way, and it seems to take her a moment to clear her throat and mind.

“Right, yes, that makes sense. I just-” she rubs her eyes, laughing in an embarrassed sort of way. “I’m sorry, you’re just a little distracting.” Her eyes stray along the line of Lena’s robe before jerking away. She stands up and moves away, hands ringing nervously. Lena notices the slight limp to her walk. “Crap, I’m sorry. Okay, focus, Kara, focus,” she coaches herself, and Lena latches on to that morsel of information with a fierce excitement. “Yes, Kara,” she drawls, and the woman’s eyes cut sharply to her. “Focus. Tell me who you are and what I can do to help.” Kara gulps noticeably at her tone, shifting on her legs, before saying, “I’m from the future. 40 years in the future, to be exact, and I was sent back in time to stop you and your brother from destroying the world.” Lena nods along. It’s not so unbelievable, the idea that Lex could destroy the world. That he could use her desperate yearning for connection to make her a willing accomplish. “Non Nocere,” she says, and the woman jolts in surprise. “What? That’s – have you already invented it?” “No, but you said that last time we met.”

Kara visibly deflates, sinking into a sigh as she leaned back against the wall.

“Thank Rao, okay. Yes. It shouldn’t exist yet, not for another year.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the tool your brother uses to destroy the world. You build it for him.”

Kara looks heartbroken as she says it, and Lena feels just the same hearing it. All she’s ever wanted to do is be a force for good despite her family, despite the life they’d set up for her, but here is this scarred, scared stranger come back to tell her how horribly she fails. How she destroys everything.

“Okay,” Lena says. “So how do we stop it?”

And that, at least, earns her a smile.

#i also wrote a lot because as previously discussed through text like twenty minutes ago i forgot to take my medicine today #and my brain has hyper fixated on this story rather than the notes and work I should be doing during my break #:D #mine #trope mashup #supercorp #I was tempted to go the time travelers wife route since we just hate-watched it but honestly my favorite time traveler concept #will always be terminator #so its more of that #anyway!!!!!!!!!! love ya

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soullikethesea · 3 years ago

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Somehow things inside are still not okay.

I've felt irrationally angry with T these last few days. I'm not even sure why? I think it might be leftover anger from the situation with my previous T. I'm not even sure if my anger in that situation was truly warranted, or if I mostly just felt scared and hurt. I still think I mostly feel scared and hurt.

Maybe it's because I'm scared of the big changes. If I get a job, maybe therapy will be much less frequent AND I likely won't have much energy for it anymore. It will be challenging and scary in many ways. Can I deal with working a lot? That's a big question and worry.

And I get many thoughts about how I'm "cured" anyway, that it doesn't matter - something had to push me out of the nest anyway. Or thoughts about how this T and I got too close anyway, makes sense that the end is in sight now.

So yeah, mostly excuses to push away the emotional stuff.

I don't feel like I have DID anymore anyway. Stabilization is complete. Stuff keeps happening and I just continue to be fine. Sure, I am apparently an adult that still plays with kids' toys. And yeah, I am not willing and/or capable to have a romantic relationship. I doubt that I'll be fine at work, but maybe. I can hope for the best, right?

I saw some of my old journals today and I just wanted to throw them OUT. I NEVER want to remember any of that. It makes me feel so ashamed. I felt a tug inside that told me to just keep them, who knows if I end up wanting to look through them 20 years from now. But that's kind of the thing, I don't want it to matter anymore by then. Just like I don't want it to matter at all NOW.

I think I had a good day, so I don't know why I feel so bad now. Could also be because I'm going to family tomorrow. Not looking forward to travelling through the heat. Maybe I need a PRN or something, but my whole body is soooo stiff that I have a hunch some yoga would be better. So many joints ache. I hate that it happens the second I don't exercise regularly, everything becomes so achy. :( And of course I also don't like the heat. It makes me so hungry, like back then. It was so outrageous that my parents made us starve like that. My dad and stepmum, I mean. I can't forgive them for that.

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simlicious · 3 years ago

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personal update

hey everyone :) A long personal post ahead, mainly about my current goals and what I am working on personally (nonsims-related). Something I want to get off my chest first: I’m not very political on this blog, mainly because I am the type of person who takes bad news very close to heart. I do not always have the energy to face all the bad in the world and mostly need this blog to be a happy bubble for me. But I do of course have opinions and I care about the environment and about equal rights for all people, no matter which race, sexual orientation, or nationality. I am against oppression of any kind and I am also anti-war. Everything bad that is happening right now really makes me sad, angry and anxious. I try to avoid media and news, but of course I get enough news simply by being online. I try to focus on little things I can do to help (signing petitions, mainly).

I also need to help myself to become stronger, and this is what I am working on right now. I am in the process of establishing new daily routines that give me more energy and motivation for the day. I use two apps which help me with that, Finch and Fabulous. More detailed info about the apps at the bottom of the post! I will see how they will benefit me in the long run, so far they help a lot though. I stuggle with structuring my day and routinely doing chores, and an unstructured day means that I am reluctant to set personal goals, because I often do not achieve them. I fail at continually working towards them. Little energy and anxiety often get in the way of goals too and makes stuff even harder. I really need that structure so that I can do a lot of household tasks routinely and can focus more on achieving the bigger goals. I am starting with a morning routine, which mainly includes exercise (that word alone can make me shudder!). The app Fabulous has really helped with that one though. I hate to force myself to do anything. I have a very rebellious side in me that does not want to suffer! So I have to get very creative sometimes to convince myself that things are actually fun and not exhausting. This is where dancing comes in. I really love to dance, but I rarely had the opportunity to do so. I tried a dance class once and it was a disaster (apparently I am not good at coordinating stuff and my partner, a college friend I had at the time, was also very self-conscious about showing our progress in front of the class. So when it came to it, he simply refused to dance with me in front of the class and I was mortified (I thought he did not want to show off because I was so bad!) Needless to say, I was done with dance classes after that. But back to the present. The Fabulous app required me to pick an exercise, something easy and fun, just for 5-15 minutes. I thought it was not fun and easy for me to get out my yoga mat every day and attempt to revive my rusty yoga knowledge, and running was out of the question, since I have to leave the house for that, so... dancing? Dancing! And I started to do a little dance every day, just me feeling the moment and getting into the groove. And I did not realize how much freaking fun I have while dancing! I do not care that I basically do squats and exhaust myself and start to sweat (I kinda hate sweating), but while I am dancing, I don’t care! I am so happy that I found an exercise that works for me. At some point, I want to do exercises which actually build up the muscles in a controlled way, but for now, I’ll just dance. It is definitely better than doing nothing and does give me an energy and motivation boost at the start of the day. I also want to create structure in my day so I can find a way to make my commissions/donating patterns for all-system work. I actually lost myself in the details, got way ahead of myself and I have to boil everything down to the basics again first. This will take time for me and the last thing I want to do is stress myself out because of this. It should be a fun project, so when it stops being fun I have to take a step back. I hope you all can understand. I am sorry that I got so carried away in the spur of the moment. That happens when I want to be more spontaneous, but I notice that it does not always work out, since I am not a “just wing it”- person. I am still very proud that I managed to do just this with my Advent calendar, but it seems I can’t just completely change the way I work projects suddenly. And it turned to out to be that elephant of a project that I never anticipated to get this big. I have to really break it down into smaller steps. I also have this fear that nobody is actually is interested in the system I am putting so much work in, so that’s something I have to think about too, if this all worth it. I started to design a survey to ask about this and when I get around to finishing that, I am looking forward to your input on this matter! As always, I appreciate your support and thank you for reading my marathon posts! 💜

Detailed App Infos:

Finch is a daily goal planning app that allows you to set goals for the day and reflect on them. By completing goals, you give energy to your pet bird. If it has enough energy, it will go on an adventure. After returning, it will have learned something and will ask your input. By giving advice to it, you can shape its personality. The bird will grow over time too and age up, according to your completed goals. There are no negative consequences if you do not complete your goals! The app is not pressuring you in any way and adapts to whatever pace you need and allows you to track personal goals and show you statistics based on word tags. I also love the breathing exercises that can help calm me down whenever I feel stressed. This is one of the most well-designed apps I have come across. I am thoroughly impressed with this one! It is so flexible and customizable, but also gives you a good foundation of things to do to get started. If you want to check out Finch, you can use my invite code HLGMBSCR1V to get some extra rainbow stones which you can use to buy outfits for your little bird. I will get some bonus stones too! I do not get paid for saying all this, but I just have to rave about this one. Fabulous is more rigid in that it has predefined programs you go through that gradually add steps and really encourages and motivates you along the way. It is good if you want more guidance. You pick the main goal you want to achieve and let the app guide you towards it. It does not allow to set personal goals the way finch does and it is not daily planner, but an app to develop healthy habits every day. It provides you with background information and guides you to personalize your goals and make them feel tailored to you.

#personal #nonsims #mostly #just me trying to establish healthy habits

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schnoogles · 4 years ago

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rage

@jonsadungeonsanddrabbles new year event!

Day 1: Resolutions

Read on Ao3

He’s not usually a self-conscious person. He’s not. But right now, Jon’s feeling a bit silly about what he’s going to do. He had to though, he promised his friends he’d stick to his New Year’s resolution and do something about keeping his stress levels down. Especially after weeks of nagging from them.

“Jon, you can’t keep overworking yourself!” Sam lectured, “You heard what the doctors said, you’re supposed to stay relatively calm and relaxed, remember?”

Oh he remembered. Almost dying wasn’t something Jon was likely to forget. But it’s not like he was overdoing anything! Of course that didn’t matter though. Sam was so worried that he started lecturing Jon almost every day and trying to tell him what to eat, how much sleep to get, how much exercise he should be doing. It was fine, until Sam started getting their other friends to be overly concerned with Jon’s well-being too.

Which was how he ended up here. Mat in hand, standing in front of a yoga studio.

He’s not entirely sure how it was supposed to help him relax, but Tormund’s cousin -Jon’s ex- swears by it. Apparently, when Ygritte heard Jon needed some stress-relieving, she immediately gave her cousin the business card for this place and told him that the best sessions were Tuesday and Thursday nights. When Jon found out Ygritte goes to the Tuesday night sessions, he signed up for Thursday. Despite the amicable break up, he’d rather not be in a room with his ex girlfriend and attempt to do things like the Plough pose. And, if he were honest, she usually makes his stress levels and blood pressure rise.

With a deep breath, Jon opened the door and walked in.

“Okay everyone,” the instructor said from the front of the room, “I know there are a few new faces today, but I think we’ve all gotten to know each other by now, yeah? Let’s get to it!”

Jon wasn’t sure what kind of yoga this was, but it certainly didn’t feel like traditional yoga. At least not compared to the one time he got dragged into doing it with Rhaenys. Everything was just so… high energy? He was no expert in yoga, but Jon could have sworn that the class his older sister took him to had a different ambience than this. Maybe he overthinking it and just felt embarrassed for standing there awkwardly. Clearly most of the people here knew each other. Or maybe it was just the instructor’s vivacious personality? The pretty redhead had walked around and spoke with a lot of the people here before taking her spot in front of the room.

After they were all in the low plank position, the instructor had them breathing in deeply for a few moments. They were supposed to clear their minds or something like that.

“Come on, Sansa. Are we done with the breathing exercises yet? It’s been a long week and I really need to let off some steam,” someone in the room said.

Jon looked upon and saw another man looking pointedly at the instructor. What an asshole, he thought. Instead of berating him though, Sansa only chuckled. And if that didn’t confuse Jon, the few chuckles joining her definitely did. Is it funny to be rude now?

“Alright, alright,” Sansa said with a smile, “Right arm out. Deep breaths now. Inhale.”

Jon took a long, deep breath.

“And… exhale.”

Before Jon knew it, everyone was screaming.

“Oh my GODS, the files will be done in just. a. moment!”

“Can you just do the GODDAMN dishes?!”

“Close the fucking door on your way out!”

“No, you can’t have ice cream for dinner!”

Jon dropped his arm and looked wildly about. What the fuck just happened? He was gaping as everyone around him seemed to be yelling at… no one in particular? His bewilderment must have been incredibly noticeable because when he turned back to look upfront, Sansa was staring right back at him. Eyes twinkling and a smile on her face.

“Everyone,” she said in a loud, commanding voice, eyes still on Jon, “What’s the first rule of Rage Yoga?”

“NEVER HOLD BACK!” chorused everyone enthusiastically.

Jon gaped at Sansa for another moment before laughing. Of course. Of fucking course, the type of yoga class Ygritte goes to is fucking rage yoga. Jon looked at the screaming people around him. Some weren’t even saying anything, they just yelled loudly.

“Okay!” Eyes still on Jon, Sansa commanded, “Right arm down, left arm up. Inhale!” She raised a brow at him. A challenge. “Exhale!”

“Can I have two minutes to myself, please?!”

“It was in the EMAIL, Karen!”

“No, the customer is not always right!”

“Stop telling me when to eat and sleep! Stop telling me how to relax! I’m a grownass adult and I can take care of myself just fine!”

Jon was still breathing heavily when he looked up at Sansa. This time, both eyebrows were raised as she smiled at him. She looked impressed. And Jon couldn’t stop from smiling back. This was exhilarating. And she was pretty.

Apparently, after rage yoga sessions, there was alcohol. Jon was chuckling to himself as he sipped on his ale. Screaming out his frustrations and drinking alcohol? All the while he could sneak looks at his pretty yoga teacher? Yeah, Jon was feeling mighty stress-free at the moment.

“First time?”

He looked up from his glass and smiled. “What gave it away?”

“The look of shock and fear when everyone started yelling.” Sansa smirked. “That and I’ve never seen you in my classes before. I’d remember a face like yours.”

Something about the way she said that made Jon blush. He really shouldn’t be having a crush on his yoga instructor, but here he is.

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, “I didn’t actually know this was a rage yoga class. Didn’t even know it was a thing.”

“What are you doing after class, Jon?”

“Oh, um, probably head home?”

“Interested in joining me for a bite?” she asked, “I can tell you all about rage yoga. Or regular yoga, if you’d rather join my normal classes.”

“Yeah, yeah! That sounds great!” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager.

Half an hour later, she locked up her studio and they made their way down the block to a small diner. Jon made a mental note to thank his friends for pushing him to do this. Best resolution ever.

#jonsa #jonsaff #jonsa fanfiction #jonsanewyeardrabbles2021 #this is so silly omg #but i love it #*yeets the fic into the tumblr abyss* BYE #my writing

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ashestoashesjc · 4 years ago

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A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend On A Couple's Retreat

Short Story 1/2/(3)/4/5/6/7/8/9/10

"RrRRrrrr... grrr? <Hey, uh, babe... seen my arm anywhere?>" rang Sett's voice throughout their cigar box of a house as he rummaged through closets, opened cabinets, overturned couch cushions.

Shutting and latching the front door behind him, Ulrick began flipping through the stack of envelopes clutched in his right hand. "Huh? Oh…”

“Okay, so… don’t get mad,” Ulrick began, as meekly and guilt-tinged as one can make a shout. “But... there was this huge, I mean HUGE silverfish…”

“GRrrr! Rrrrr. <Dude! Not cool,>” could be heard as Sett stomped his way to the foyer.

“I know! I’m sorry! I’m weak!” moaned Ulrick.

Sett sighed as he entered the cove and laid his single remaining hand on Ulrick’s left shoulder, the other sleeve draped flaccidly at his side. “Grrrr. <Well, yeah.>” he said. Ulrick snickered.

“You know, having your boyfriend kill a bug for you is exceedingly normal,” Ulrick said, separating the bills from the letters that weren’t bills. There were very few that weren’t bills. “Almost conventional.”

“Rrr. <True,>” Sett replied. “Rggrrrr. <Probably while the arm’s still attached, though.>”

“A mere quibble.”

“Rrrrgrrr? <So, where is it now?>” Sett asked.

“Ugh. Still getting cozy with the silverfish, I’d imagine,” Ulrick admitted, guilt creeping back into his voice. He covered his eyes with his free hand and shuddered. “In… the shower.”

Sett sucked air through his teeth in a compassion-filled cringe.

“Yeah,” Ulrick sighed, resigned to his trauma.

“Grrrr. <Don’t worry,>” said Sett. “Rraarr. <I got it.>”

Ulrick slid his hand down his face with a grateful groan. “God, I love you.” Sett pulled him forward by his collar and pecked his forehead.

Continuing to sort through the mail, Ulrick came to a red envelope and, seeing it addressed to Sett, handed it over. “Looks important.”

Confusion clouded Sett’s eyes for the first few, slow moments spent undoing the envelope’s seal flap, until suddenly, a surge of realization like lightning drove him to violently tear the crimson paper away.

As he scanned the contents of the letter contained within, words failing to do his emotional state justice, Sett began to fist pump wildly, God help anyone in the flight path of his singular elbow. Ulrick looked on in entranced bewilderment.

“Was there itching powder in that envelope?” asked Ulrick.

Sett shoved the creased letter in Ulrick’s face, his manic energy not yet dissipated. Ulrick took it and held it out at arm’s length until his eyes brought the words into focus.

“A couple’s retreat?” he wondered aloud, lowering the paper enough to peer over the top at Sett.

“Grrgrrrr. <An all-expenses paid couple’s retreat.> Rrrrrr. <At a swanky resort.> GrrrrRr. <Complete with water skis.>”

“This is from a contest?” he asked, rotating and inspecting the sheet. “When did we enter a contest?”

“Rrggrrrr? <You know those entry slips we’re getting in the post all the time?>”

“The ones I’m always throwing away? I’m familiar.”

“RrrRrrrrr ggrrrr. <Well, your aim could use some work, because some of them wind up in the mailbox,>” said Sett, with a shrug.

The sound that next filled the room, colored with exasperated mirth, was one Sett was used to Ulrick making, though one that never stopped bringing a flush of heat to the place where his heart used to be.

He grabbed Ulrick by the hips and the two began to sway back and forth. “Rrrrrr. <Just imagine it,>” he purred dreamily. “GrrrRRrrrr rrrrRrrr grrr...arrrr? <Massages, rock-climbing, a luau. And… did I mention waterskiing?>”

Swaying still, Ulrick looked up with his head cocked. "I've... never heard you mention waterskiing before."

"GrrRrrrrrr. <I enjoy a lot of things I don't talk about.> Rgrrrrgrrr. <Like country music, or bad chick lit,>" Sett said before twirling and dipping Ulrick in a blur. "Rraarrrr. <I'm a multi-layered zombie.>"

Breaking clumsily away from the songless dance and squeezing the bridge of his nose, Ulrick set down the remainder of the mail on the side table by the entrance and looked his boyfriend over. “It’s totally free?”

“Grrarrr. <It’s totally free,>” confirmed Sett.

Ulrick raised an eyebrow. “No catch?”

“Rrr… <Well…>”

“And streeetch! That’s right! Streeetch!”

At the front of Meadow Grove Resort’s famed yoga studio balanced - one foot planted on the ground, the other hooked deftly behind her neck - Chrysanthemum Smith, a remarkably limber 60-year-old instructor, urging her out-of-shape contest winning students to achieve the same feats of flexibility.

All around Ulrick and Sett, a pretzel factory’s soon-to-be-discarded collection of heinous, gnarly undesirables had been given life in the form of sweaty middle Americans.

That pretzels went through a less agonizing process being baked at 500 degrees was a fact Ulrick was both confident in and envious of. His legs were angled in a way he was sure he’d feel for weeks to come.

Sett, on the other hand, had apparently been a contortionist in a past life, the way he bent himself into poses, well, a pretzel would gawk at, holding each position stoically before moving gracefully on to the next. It also helped that he couldn’t feel what would leave most tendons shredded rags.

Ulrick gave up the pursuit of dislocating his pelvis and instead went to poke Sett in the cheek. Through his mask, Sett made a chomping motion at the finger, though remained otherwise totally still. "Okay, but this kind of bites, right?" Ulrick signed.

"A little. And not in the fun way," Sett signed back.

On a pair of blue, rubber mats to their left were two women - one in a biker's jacket and tattered, patched jeans, short red hair tied into a haphazard ponytail; the other a dark woman donning a shaved head, flower-patterned maxi dress, and combat boots - the former of whom suddenly grabbed Ulrick's attention with a nod.

"You're telling me," she signed.

And in an instant, they were no longer alone in the hazy, secluded sphere that made their reality.

So taken aback was he that he blurted aloud, "You sign?"

The yoga instructor shushed him from her place at the head of the wide room, leading him to duck down sheepishly. With the forced inclusion of an overly casual air, he said more than asked, "You sign."

"Oh, yeah," the woman chuckled gruffly. "Mom's Deaf."

Taking a sudden interest in the conversation, Sett's head swiveled to the leather jacket-clad woman. "Shit yeah!" he signed with fervor, eliciting a harsh snort from the woman. The instructor's head whipped around to glare her way, but went ignored.

Sett's hands jumbled for a moment before he continued. "I mean, I'm sure that must have been very difficult for your family and--"

She gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "Nah, don't worry about it. She's capital 'D' Deaf. A congenital thing. Whole family's been signing forever."

Her wife - Jen, they later learned - chimed in with, "Di does it at home, too. She's taught me half the lyrics to Boys for Pele."

"Wow!" Ulrick said with teeth-clenching enthusiasm. "That's so great! Isn't that so great, Sett?"

The mask did nothing to conceal Sett's raised, beaming features. "That's so great!" he signed.

"I'm sorry!" bellowed the lithe yogi, shattering all delusions of serenity. "Am I boring you?"

Several overlapping voices came to the general consensus of "Christ, yes."

One of the husbands, portly and somewhat resembling the famously affable capybara, asked, somewhat less affably, why they were being stretched into taffy when they should be outside taking one-on-one lessons with the beach volleyball instructor. He was joined by a few surly “yeah!”s.

They were met with an unimpressed crossing of the arms. Though it should be noted Smith’s foot was still being held comfortably behind her head.

"I would suggest, in the future, that you more closely scrutinize contest entries," Yogi Smith advised in as calm a manner as it seemed she could now manage, though with an unmistakable edge to her voice. "In order to partake in our facility’s more... physically involved activities, you’ll first need to align and cleanse your mental, emotional, and spiritual energies.”

This provoked a studio-wide groan, with the exclusion of Jen, who seemed just eager enough to cancel out the cloud of grim impatience encircling her.

“Unless, of course,” Smith said, shifting poses to something favoring the letter ‘G’, “you’d prefer to construct your own schedules. In which case, a full price admission to Meadow Grove Resort remains available.”

She sleekly extended her right leg, pointing its foot pin-straight toward the sliding studio doors. “Don’t, as the masters of yore were wont to say, let the door hit ya.”

When no one moved and the room went quiet enough to hear an acupuncture needle drop, Smith resumed a standing position and bowed three times to each division of the studio. “Namaste. Namaste. Namaste.”

Chrysanthemum Smith had in no way undersold how ‘aligned and cleansed’ couple’s therapy and its airings of dirty laundry and subsequent ferocious dissolutions of decades of marriage; couple’s pottery, the same thing but with clay vases; and couple’s finger-painting, a bonding exercise in shared humiliation, would make their minds, emotions, and souls through sheer gut-rending hilarity.

Ulrick almost didn’t want to stop watching people who, hours ago, seemed all confidence and bravado, now being brought to tears by an instructor’s criticism of their macaroni art lacking ‘depth.’

But their confinement was over and they were free to roam the grounds as they saw fit and Sett, without even feigning to look for a map of the resort, made a beeline for the largest body of water (and the largest gathering of humans) he could sniff. Ulrick was still surprised at times by how agile Sett could be on his feet when on the hunt for blood - or recreational watersports - and struggled to keep up.

Their long-awaited waterskiing adventure began almost as soon as they arrived at the lakeside, the instructor needing a volunteer at that instant to man the skis while he lectured another guest on the controls of the boat. At nearly a head taller than anyone else present, Sett didn’t need much more than a raised hand to stand out.

Things were going great; Sett mounted on skis as long as he was tall, the boat revving greedily for take off. At Sett’s thumbs up, the runabout hammered off in a thunderous roar. And then, all at once, things were going wrong.

The envisioned majesty of skimming the motionless calm of the crystal river was halted abruptly with a leaden Sett stumbling mid-lake in his skis, trying and failing to correct himself, going feet-over-head, and sinking like an anchor to the agitated silt of the riverbed below.

Ulrick, though he jumped with concern at the first hint of a misstep, expected a brief swim back, perhaps slowed a bit - but not much - by Sett's stoney limbs. He’d been the star diver of his local swimming hole as a teen and still maintained some of the underwater dexterity, though nowadays tended to lurk the floors of bodies of water like a carnivorous bottom-feeder; eating habits included.

But then a few minutes passed, and nothing. A lifeguard and two of the more experienced swimmers among the guests plunged into the river and searched for fifteen minutes, cracking the surface now and again for a gulp of air, all to no avail. The water was too cloudy with sediment to see past a certain depth, and the orange-purples of dusk were beginning to settle in. They'd need to return in the morning with a diving team.

It'd now been forty-five minutes, and three of the resort’s other guests were consoling Ulrick, one herself on the verge of waterworks. They'd just witnessed a man - someone's significant other - torn tragically from life's teat, and in front of the man he loved, no less.

Ulrick, for his part, was positively miffed.

"When I get my hands on him..." Ulrick started, before one of the grievers tossed him a teary-eyed questioning look. "Er, that is... would that I could only put my hands on him... again..." he corrected.

Just as Ulrick had begun mentally reviewing the basics of the Arts of Throttling, a movement, barely noticeable, shook the surface of the lake. Then bubbles, then the full break of the water as a head rose into view. Then the screams of onlookers as, in the fading light, a ghastly lake monster began its murderous approach. Then screams of a different kind as people began to make the connection proper. Then there was weeping, fainting, more than one declaration of faith renewed. It was a miracle!

Later, after insistences for medical attention were politely but firmly refused and the religious stragglers begging for just a smell of Sett’s waterlogged clothes were shooed away, Ulrick asked why he waited so long to resurface, to which Sett said, "GrrrrRRrr. <Well, at first I was just sort of embarrassed.> RrrrrrrGrrrRrrr? <Then I thought, "How often do these people see miracles?>"

"Oh, sure," groaned Ulrick. "A man comes out of a lake after half an hour and it's a miracle. A man comes out of a grave after a few months and it's "Grab the torches and pitchforks, everyone!""

"Rrrr. <Babe.>"

Ulrick gave a pouty grumble. "I'm just saying. One's a little more miraculous, is all."

Sett pulled Ulrick's head into his chest and stroked his hair. "GrrrRrrrRrrr. <Shh, I know, dude, I know.>" His heavy, soaked clothes and lack of body heat didn't chill Ulrick as much as they should have, and though a fine coating of sand covering him from head to toe gritted against Ulrick's cheek, it only made Ulrick rub his face in rebelliously.

"Okay," Ulrick said, resting his fists on Sett's chest and gazing up into his eyes. "What's the next activity? I think we’re... due-au for a luau?" The moment the words left his lips, his face collapsed into disgusted regret.

“Rgrrr... <Actually…>” Sett said, wrenching off his mask and shaking the excess water from his hair, teasing a blush out of Ulrick. “GgrrrRrrrr? <Doesn’t watching the stars by the lake sound pretty relaxing?>”

Ulrick grinned and took a seat on the shoreline, running his hands through the tufts of ryegrass stretching out in waves around him. He tapped a spot to his right and Sett, half-cocked smile in tow, came lumbering over to take it.

Hours flurried past, changing nothing about the image of the intimately silent pair but the number of stark white pinpricks in the sky they beheld.

They threatened to sit silently basking in each other forever.

And then Sett said, “GRrrrrgrrr, rrgrrr, graargrr. <So, Diane and Jen gave me their number, and they want to plan an outing.>”

Unease shot through Ulrick’s veins, but he held his tongue in search of the correct words. “O-oh?”

“Grrr? Rrgrrrrr. <Isn’t that cool? People want to spend time with us,>” said Sett, ensorcelled with the twinkle of every new star. “Rrrrr. <With me.>”

“That might be…” began Ulrick, before noticing the glimmer in Sett’s eyes and faint lift at the corners of his mouth as he stared up towards a great unknown. He sighed. “It’s going to be great.”

Sett rested his hand on Ulrick’s, their fingers interlocking. He smiled, and the two gazed into an ever-darkening firmament, speckled with a thousand stars and a thousand futures.

#A Necromancer & His Zombie Boyfriend #short stories #supernatural #mlm #wlw #queer #series #A Necromance #original #fiction

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serendipitous-magic · 5 years ago

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Why Don’t We Read: An Impromptu Essay By Me Because I’m Mad

You know how everyone is always saying “oh, I was such a big reader when I was a kid but I just don’t read books anymore, I don’t know what happened”? And how old people are always griping about “This is called a BOOK, it has no commercials and no loading screens, hardy har har har snorf har”?

What if it’s because we just don’t have time anymore?

Think about it. More and more and more of our time on earth is eaten up at our jobs just trying to survive in an economy where “minimum wage” covers maybe 1/3 of bare minimum expenses. And not only that, but we’re expected to juggle more and more and more things every single day. Long, uninterrupted hours simply... do not exist anymore.

Every day you have to not only commute to work, and then work, and then commute back, plus all the little chores and mundanities that make up every day life, cooking food and then eating food and folding laundry and cleaning and putting gas in the car and don’t forget that dentist appointment and better call Mom and if you have a lawn you have to water it and weed it and you have to figure out if you have enough to pay rent this month and you still have to call FedEx about that missing package and now you have to cook again and now there’s more laundry and so many emails to respond to and it’s been months since you washed your sheets hasn’t it and

BUT THEN

You are expected to do and be and keep up with so many things.

You’re supposed to work out, or jog, or do yoga, and you’re supposed to meditate or do a breathing exercise daily because it’s good for you, and while you’re at it, make sure that your living space looks like a magazine or an Instagram post, you need X minutes of sunshine a day to be healthy and Y minutes of exercise and Z number of steps, and you need to be an environmentalist and make sure you’re doing your part to save the planet, and you need to be constantly self improving, you need to be learning a language on Duolingo and doing projects like crocheting or writing or antiquing, you have to be completely unproblematic and constantly monitor everything you do and say and post because one tiny little thing can have the internet jumping down your throat, you’re supposed to be a nutritionist and a fitness nut and an expert on everything you talk about because society has become so black and white that saying “I don’t know” or “I didn’t know that before” is looked on as unacceptable, you’re supposed to know what’s in your coffee and where it came from, you’re supposed to be a son a daughter a sibling a parent a student a mentor but also you’re supposed to be an interior designer, a small business owner (if you do any kind of Etsy or commission thing), a revolutionary (you’d better care about every overwhelming, exhausting injustice in the world and you’d better take action against it - see below), a curator (if only of your own blog), a rhetor (you’d better damn well know how to argue or you’re screwed in this society), a teacher (because school districts don’t teach anyone shit), a negotiation expert because it is car salesmen and insurance agencies’ job to fuck you over as hard as they possibly can.

Oh and don’t forget, you’re supposed to simplify your life and live in the moment. That one’s very important.

All of this is most likely while you’re already working anywhere from 20-40+ hours per week.

Keep up with your friends on Facebook, spend time to see what they’ve been up to, spend time posting your own pictures, catch up with your Instagram and Twitter and Tumblr feed, and for fuck’s sake you’d better make sure you’re reblogging all the right things about current social events, and you’d better also be caught up on the news, which all happens and changes so fast now that communication is instantaneous, keep up with all the politics, know every new outrage and be outraged about it, keep up with the politicians, the scientists begging us to listen, the latest news about the celebrity outed as a bigot, the latest shooting, the latest bombing, the latest protest, you’d better keep up with all of that and know what’s happening in the world, every minute of every day, and oh don’t worry about having to seek the news out, it comes to you. Every little ping on your phone is a new piece of news.

And you’d better care about it all. You’d better have enough energy in your body and mind to care about all the politics and all the injustice, and be rightly outraged every single day by the state of the world and every new horror, but you’d better also care about the dying planet and the burning rainforests, the oil spill, the glacial melt, you’d better be outraged about that too and you’d better be able to act on that outrage because those are all so important, and they are, but then you also have to care about insurance companies ruining people’s lives by making it impossible to afford healthcare, and you have to care about how agricultural companies have made cruel and byzantine webs of laws to drive farms out of business and make food, a basic necessity of life, a business, and one that’s designed not to feed and nurture people but to make money. And then while we’re on the topic of money you’d better care that the top 10 richest companies in the world create 70% of the world’s pollution, and you’d better care about how billionaires could fix most of the world’s biggest problems and they simply choose not to, and how Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos and everyone like them have an amount of money and resources that no single person could ever come close to earning, and how if that wealth was fairly redistributed and recirculated into the economy then maybe minimum wage would actually earn you a living and that’s not even to mention the other systems of brutality and cruelty and injustice in society, the racism, the homophobia, the ableism, the ageism, the sexism, the -ism -ism -ism on for infinity

So you’d better buy and use reusable straws and reusable coffee cups, you’d better cut down on your CO2 emissions, you’d better take shorter showers, you’d better recycle your plastics and spend time at the store thinking about how you can buy things with less plastic wrapping, while you’re also thinking about those big agriculture companies, oh and by the way your eggs? The chickens they came from live in cages, barely being allowed to move for their entire lives, and you’d better be outraged about that too. Where do you think that milk came from? What does that cow look like? How about those peas, were they picked by someone being paid $1 an hour? Every single item on the shelf has some deep horror woven into its backstory.

You’d better sign every petition you can and you’d better reblog the right things about taking action against injustice and you’d better be vocal about it, you’d better buy your soap and your clothes from small businesses instead of supporting the big evil ones that are much easier to access and much, much cheaper (because somebody suffered, somewhere along the line, to make it that cheap), you’d better remember to save your pasta water to water your plants with instead of wasting it, you’d better make your gifts by hand (if you have the time, which you don’t), and

And then there’s the beauty industry.

You cannot go a single day without seeing something about “lose weight fast!” or “The Skinny Girl Cookbook!” or “This Weird Thing Burns Belly Fat!”, and everyone you see on screen is twig-thin or muscled, and don’t forget that you’re supposed to take the time to love yourself and practice body positivity too, oh wait no it’s too late, now body neutrality is the right thing to say and think. Every part of your face and body has some malady and you can buy a cure! Spend this much to get rid of acne, spend this much to wax your legs, buy this for wrinkles and that for stretch marks, this cream smooths out your skin to look like an eggshell instead of human flesh, that cream “fixes” those bumps on your arms that apparently aren’t allowed to exist, a basic face of makeup is at least 5 products if not 10, there are countless tutorials on how to make yourself better, because you aren’t okay as you are and you never will be as long as somebody can sell you something to “fix” yourself.

Oh, and that’s more time spent, too. Take the time to shave, to moisturize, to do your 3-step skincare routine, to slather all different kinds of goops and goos on various parts of you, take the time to pluck your eyebrows and exfoliate your feet and

Everything wants your attention, every second of every day. Because attention is money. Netflix Hulu Youtube watch this ad look at this ad Twitter Disney+ Twitter again Facebook more ads look at this ad sign up for this subscription package watch this new season of this show, watch this new movie, watch this watch this watch this watch look at this this watch this watch this look at this look at this look at this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this look over here look at this look at this look over here watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this watch this look at this

And then at the end of the day you still have to reserve time for the people in your life that are important to you, and leave time for those long conversations with your sister or time to bond with your kid or time to go on dates with your S.O.

And then you’re supposed to take time for yourself. Self care. Like social media is always saying to do. Take a bath, drink some tea, relax. If you have time.

And all of that. ALL of that. Most likely happens in the small slivers of time before and after your work day, or on the weekend in the small sliver of time before or after you fold that laundry and cook dinner and attend to your personal matters and maybe hang out with a friend if you’re lucky.

And I just described a fairly privileged, not-on-the-brink-of-poverty, not-in-and-out-of-the-hospital, not-constantly-targeted-by-violence-or-oppression life. I just described a cushy life.

Is it any fucking wonder that we all feel shattered? Like our time, even on free days with absolutely nothing scheduled, is made up of tiny pieces? Is it any wonder that it seems like nobody can sit down with a book anymore?

I’m so fucking tired.

#impromptu essay because I'm goddamn mad #long rant #sorry this blocks off your whole dash #but I don't think this one should have a read more line tbh #modern society #books #compassion fatigue #lifestyle #we need to change society but i'm afraid the inertia is too much #and the people in power who WANT it this way #are too powerful to beat #i should not be this fucking exhausted at 22

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nightkitchentarot · 4 years ago

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The Secret Of The Quiet Mind

FROM THE ATLANTIC -- JUNE 17, 2021

I Know the Secret to the Quiet Mind. I Wish I’d Never Learned It.

Of all the injuries we suffered, mine is the worst. My brain injury has shaken my confidence in my own personality, my own existence.

By Hana Schank

The worst things can happen on the most beautiful days. My family’s worst day was a perfect one in the summer of 2019. We picked my daughter up from camp and talked about where to go for lunch: the diner or the burger place. I don’t remember which we chose. What I do remember: being woken up, again and again, by doctors who insist on asking me the same questions—my name, where I am, what month it is—and telling me the same story, a story that I am sure is wrong.

“You were in a car accident,” they say. But this cannot be. We’re having lunch and then going on a hike. I had promised the think tank where I work that I’d call in to a 4 p.m. meeting.

“You are in Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in New Hampshire.” Another ludicrous statement. I started the day in Vermont. Surely if I had crossed the river to New Hampshire I would know it.

“What’s your name?” they ask me, and I tell them and tell them and tell them.

“Where are you?” “New Hampshire,” I say, except for one time when I say “Vermont.” “New Hampshire,” they correct, and I want to say, “Really, we are so close to the border here, can’t you just give it to me this once?”

“You were in a car accident,” they tell me again. “Your husband broke his leg and your son broke his collarbone.” These do not seem like horrible injuries, so I am waiting for the worse news, the news that my daughter is dead. She is the youngest and the smallest. She was born with albinism, and her existence has always felt improbable, and so now it must be over.

But—thank God—it’s not. “Your daughter has fractures in her spine and damage to her lower intestine from the seat belt.” They tell me that my lower intestine was also injured, and that I’ve had surgery. I lift up my hospital gown and am surprised to see an angry red line and industrial-size staples. I remember an article I’d read about seat belts not being designed for women, and I ask the doctor if he sees more women with these injuries than men. I have yet to take in the reality of what has happened to me, to my family. Instead I am thinking about writing an exposé about the sexist seat-belt industry.

They wake me up and ask me where I am and what my name is. A doctor asks me who the president is. “I don’t want to say,” I reply. He smiles. I am at Dartmouth for three days before I am transferred to the University of Vermont, where my husband and children are. The days pass like minutes, a loop of sleep interrupted by people asking me questions and telling me terrible things.

One of the things I am told is that I have a brain bleed and a traumatic brain injury. I wonder if this is why I am slurring my words, but am told that the slurring is from the anti-seizure medication I am on. This sounds good. The slurring will stop. A doctor tells me I “got my bell rung.” This is a bad analogy. Bell clappers are meant to slam against the side of the bell. The brain is not meant to slam against the side of the skull.

Of all the injuries my family is suffering from, mine is the worst. This is my totally biased opinion. My husband’s leg will take almost a year to heal. My daughter would have died if not for the surgery to repair her flayed abdomen. She is 10, and one of her friends tells her that because of the scar she will never be able to wear a bikini. She spends many days attempting to suss out whether she cares. She doesn’t yet know if she is the bikini-wearing type.

My 13-year-old son is the only one who remembers the accident. He remembers a woman in a ponytail calling 911, the smell of gasoline and burnt metal. He remembers his father yelling “Jesus Christ.” He will have to live with the memory of his sister looking at my body and asking, “Is Mama dead?”

These are terrible injuries, and yet, the other members of my family don’t walk around thinking, Am I still me? My brain injury has shaken my confidence in my own personality, my own existence. This is the worst injury.

When we leave the hospital and move into a hotel, I frequently get lost in the hallway. The first time I roll into occupational therapy with my walker, I am grateful for the obvious signage pointing me toward the check-in desk. It’s almost as though the clinic is expecting people with brain damage.

My therapist is a smiling, 40-something woman with dirty-blond hair. She reminds me of me before the accident. She asks if I am having any thinking problems or memory problems. I tell her about an incident with Parmesan cheese.

“Can you get the Parmesan?” my husband asked.

I opened the fridge and looked. I looked and looked.

“I can’t find it,” I said with a shrug.

My son opened the fridge and pulled out a block of Parmesan.

It hadn’t occurred to me that this was a brain issue. Sometimes you just can’t find the Parmesan. Right?

A test confirms that I have trouble scanning a visual field for objects. My brain is struggling to recognize what I see, but without a pre-accident baseline to judge from, there is no way to know how much worse I am at it now. Have I always been bad at finding things? Maybe? There are limits to how well an injured brain can scrutinize an injured brain.

I have other visual-processing issues. At first I can’t watch television because my brain is unable to merge the images from my two eyes, so I see doubles of everything—two Phoebes, two Chandlers. I can watch with one eye closed, but I’m distracted, seething at my brain for failing to do such a simple task.

In one session, the therapist tells me we are going to play a game. She pulls out a deck of cards and asks me to turn cards over while saying the number or the color or the suit. The game is so difficult, I want to physically remove my brain from my skull and hurl it against a wall. I will never play this game again as long as I live.

Eventually I graduate from occupational therapy. But occupational therapy isn’t about getting people back on their feet so they can return to think tanks. It is about making sure they can run errands without getting lost. I am someone who has always taken pride in my intelligence, and now I am not so smart. I am just a functional human being, according to occupational therapy.

When we go out in public as a family, we are a walking nightmare. “Wow,” a stranger says, marveling at the device that is bolted into my husband’s femur. And then my son appears with his arm in a sling, my daughter limps over in her back brace. An injured couple is potentially funny. There is nothing funny about an injured family. “What happened to you guys?”

When we tell the story, we explain that we were in no way at fault, which feels important. We wore our seat belts and drove the speed limit and the weather wasn’t bad and yet this happened to us. Someone was driving a pickup truck in the opposite direction. He was late to a job interview or to get his kid, or maybe he was just antsy. In front of him was a motorcycle slowing him down. Maybe he’d been behind that motorcycle for miles. Maybe he liked to take risks. He pulled into our lane and passed the motorcycle while going up a hill at 70 miles per hour. I don’t know who makes this kind of decision. Did he think, I can’t believe I did something this stupid? Did he also yell “Jesus Christ”?

Because we are not at fault, accident feels like the wrong word. Not just wrong, but unfair. My husband starts calling it the incident, but an incident is a small thing, not something that scars you for life. The smashing? The destruction? Newbury, after the town where it occurred? The only thing that comes close is the devastation.

The devastated me is different. My brain used to race, making lists and plans, skipping from an article I was researching to whether my kids were in appropriate after-school programs to what vacation we should take in February. Now it does none of that. There are no plans to make.

A few days after regaining consciousness, I check my Twitter feed. I have always been a news junkie. But I have missed nothing. The news seems to be not just familiar but actually repeating itself. Something bonkers happened in the White House. People are dying in a country I’ve never been to. A company did something possibly illegal. There was a house fire in the Bronx. Are these the things I used to care about?

The most interesting piece of news is the one I am experiencing. In the hospital we are waiting to make sure my daughter can poop through her reconstructed colon. This article isn’t in The New York Times.

When we return to New York I take the subway to doctor appointments. I don’t take out my phone, I just sit. My brain is quiet, which I find suspicious, but also soothing. Before the accident I went to yoga retreats and tried meditation. I said things like “I just need to unplug.” Apparently what I needed was to get hit by a truck. Perhaps I have discovered the secret to a peaceful mind, and it is traumatic brain injury. I fantasize about opening an expensive spa where busy people pay me money to whack them on the head with a baseball bat.

The day of the accident I had been working on a project to improve how homeless people are placed into shelters. I say out loud, “I don’t care about homeless people” to see how it feels. It doesn’t ring true; I do care about homeless people. I just don’t feel like working. I have always been a regular exerciser. Now I can’t imagine wanting to do a burpee, let alone 10 of them. I always ate healthy things. But did you know that you can eat whole grains and still get hit by a truck?

I have strange cravings. I think about apple cider all the time. Apple cider is not a normal part of my diet. I have a very detailed dream about eating chocolate cake. I eat the cake. That’s the entire dream. I find myself foraging in the fridge for flavors that don’t exist.

I don’t know which symptoms are permanent and which are temporary. At first, the doctors say that after a year or two I’m likely to have a full return to my normal brain function. Or not. They don’t really know about the brain. It might be more like 95 percent. If I broke my elbow and someone told me I’d get 95 percent of my elbow function back, I’d be satisfied. But 95 percent of my brain function sounds terrifying. Which pieces will be missing?

Some days I feel like myself. Other days all I can think about is the old life that is gone. Then, halfway through my recuperation, the coronavirus comes. The stores close, the schools close, the traffic on the avenue dwindles to a sporadic whoosh. And my busy friends who were always texting me about their crazy schedules are suddenly as quiet as I am. Together we wait for normal to return. The difference is that they know what normal looks like.

In July it will be two years since the accident. The world is now coming back to life, my days slowly filling up with work and chores and exercise. Soon I will go back to in-person meetings and travel, and I wonder: Will I be up to the challenge? Or will I get lost in office buildings and airports?

For now, in this liminal space between the old life and the new one, I often catch myself staring at my children. They have never been more beautiful. I chalk this up to the magic of braces––their teeth are finally coming into alignment––but I know this is ridiculous. They are beautiful because they are alive. I look at them, and I sit with the silence. Today, it is mine. Tomorrow, it may not be.

#brain injury #savor your life #hana schank

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bnhabadass · 5 years ago

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BNHA Halloween Day 4 - Chilly Evening

@bnha-halloween2019 | Day [4]: [Chilly Evening] / [Todoroki x Reader] | [PG] | [Pro Hero AU]

“A yoga instructor?” Todoroki asked. It had become a tradition for him and Yaoyorozu to grab coffee, or in her case a cup of tea, every morning before they went in for work. Their hero agencies were located very close to one another making Yaomomo one of the few people Todoroki kept in close contact with after high school.

“Yes Uraraka suggested I hire a yoga instructor at my agency to be a meditative presence for my employees. Turns out she was right. Having a small break to stretch and do those exercises has really helped out my employees. They’re more efficient when fighting villains now and my interns seem to be enjoying the workplace more.”

“It’s that effective?” Todoroki asked, taking a sip of his latte. He had never thought to hire someone to coach other pro heros on how to exercise. It almost seemed counter intuitive.

“I’d say so.” The pro in front of him took a short pause in order to sip her tea. She sighed, smiling as the warm beverage entered her body. “You should try it, Todoroki. I think your employees will really benefit from it.”

Maybe he’d give it a try. His employees had been slacking off lately, so maybe the sort of discipline one gets from a yoga class would help with that issue.

When he got to work the first thing he told his assistant was to find a yoga instructor looking for work. He was not expecting there to be a job interview conducted that day and for the person to be hired on the spot. Being the busy person that he was he didn’t actually have time to meet his newest employee, but he was looking forward to meeting them for their first day of work.

“You managed to find one that fast?” Yaoyorozu asked the next morning.

“It’s as if they didn’t try very hard to find one. I trust my assistant, though.” Todoroki looked down at his thumbs as he spoke, leaving his coffee untouched.

Momo looked at him conspicuously and then down at the beverage in his hands. Something was on his mind that he clearly didn’t want to say. “It’ll get cold if you don’t drink it soon,” she pointed out.

“I’ll just heat it up myself.”

Something was clearly on Todoroki’s mind. Nerves, perhaps, for meeting his newest employee? Momo decided to leave it alone. Somehow she knew how it would all turn out, but that was for Todoroki to discover himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, about to turn the corner as they walked down the street. “Let me know how it goes.”

And then Todoroki was left alone with a nervous stomach. Walking into his agency, he asked the kid typing away at the front desk if the new instructor was in yet.

“Good morning, Shoto,” the boy said. Todoroki started regretting using his first name as his hero ailies once he went pro. “Yes the new instructor is in training room two. She came in about half an hour ago.”

That early. Wow. Todoroki had no doubt that his assistant picked a good one. He walked across the hall to where the training rooms were. Training room two was the size of a small dance studio. It was less used for training quirks and more for stretching. Inside he saw a young woman wearing black yoga pants and a dark grey tank top. You were set perfectly still in a… head stand? Todoroki cleared his throat and you gracefully descended out of the position. You turned around and opened your bright eyes at him. A smile made its way onto your lips

“Shoto!” you said. “I wasn’t expecting to meet you today.”

He blushed as you called him by his first name, but he had to remind himself that it’s also his hero ailies, and that it means nothing.

You stuck your hand out for him to shake. “(L/n),” you said. He shook it and smiled at you.

That was the only interaction the two of you had for the first week. Todoroki would watch from afar as you taught two or three classes daily depending on what villainous activity was happening that day. You even helped some of his interns with their form while they were training. Sometimes he would come back from patrolling to see you meditating in the training room and he would just watch you sit there, breathing in and out. It was mesmerizing for him.

“Why don’t you sit in on one of her classes?” Momo asked. She sipped her tea delicately and patted her mouth dry with a napkin.

“Would that be appropriate?”

“It’s your agency, Todoroki. Take advantage of the services you provide.”

“I don’t know,” he said, looking into the cup of black coffee he held. He wasn’t in the mood for his usual latte. “I mean do I even have time to be taking a yoga class?”

Momo smirked. “Based on what you’ve told me you have plenty of time to stare at her.”

Todoroki shot her a dirty look from the rim of his mug. “Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll take a class with her.”

That day, around two in the afternoon, you sat in class, talking to a few of Shoto interns who had taken a liking to your teaching. Todoroki poked his head in the room and stood in the doorway, just watching you. It took a minute, but you looked up and smiled at him.

“I didn’t expect you’d be joining us today, Shoto,” you said.

Everyone watched in awe as Todoroki walked over to the rolled up stack of yoga mats and grabbed one off the top. “I thought I’d give it a try,” he said. “Creati seems to think highly of it and apparently so do my interns.”

You smiled at him. “Now then. It looks like we’re all here. Let’s begin.”

Todoroki quite enjoyed the class. He left almost feeling rejuvenated. It explains why he came back the next day, and the day after that, and every day at two pm for the rest of the week. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t help his technique, too. He definitely saw a difference when on patrol.

“I think I’m addicted,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee and a bite out of the crumb cake he had ordered.

Momo hadn’t actually seen him eat in a very long time, but she was happy to see him putting real food into his system for once. “To yoga or to (L/n)?” she asked.

He didn’t react like she thought he would. Todoroki was never one to argue or fight against a close friend, but he didn’t even shoot her a dirty look this time. “I don’t know,” he finally said after a few seconds of just chewing the crumb cake.

Momo didn’t expect him to admit it so soon. He was clearly enamoured with you and your self discipline. She thought yoga would be good for him, as he had been under quite a bit of stress lately. She didn’t, however, expect him to fall for the woman teaching it.

Todoroki didn’t show up for the two pm class that day, or the one after that. He did go to the six pm class the next day, however.

“Long day at work?” You asked, sitting cross legged on your yoga mat sipping a cup of tea.

“Precisely,” Todoroki said. He loved how you didn’t talk to him like he was one of the top three heros. You talked to him as if he was more or less an aquanitence; like he was someone you thought highly of but didn’t idolize.

Not many people went to your evening class. In fact, most people were off work by that point. So it was just the two of you. Shoto told you to take your time with your cup of tea and that he would wait.

If you were being honest with yourself, you were a bit nervous teaching a class that was just Shoto. He was very kind and you were happy to be working with him, but you liked him almost too much, it seemed. You had told yourself to keep a professional relationship with everyone you work with. Of course you wanted to get to know your co workers, but working with pro heros was a whole new level of working. They were on a completely different level than you.

“Are you ready?” you asked.

Shoto gave you a quick nod and you jumped up. “Alright then. Let’s begin.”

The class went well. You thought it would be uncomfortable, being alone with one of the heroes you idolize, but it was actually really nice.

“Are you walking to the station?” he asked after class. You tossed him a rolled up towel and he patted down his face. He would have never imagined becoming this sweaty after a yoga class of all things.

“Yeah,” you said, taking a towel for yourself. “I ride the eleven.”

He gave a soft smile and nodded. “I’ll walk you there.”

You could feel your cheeks heating up but you weren’t too worried about him noticing. You had just been working out after all. “Thank you.”

The brisk October air hit you like a sharp kitchen knife as you walked outside. You remember setting a jacket on the chair in your living room as a reminder not to forget it. But low and behold here you were wearing nothing but yoga pants and a thin tank top. Why were you always so forgetful?

“I can’t believe I forgot a jacket,” you said. “It’s cold!”

You weren’t expecting Shoto to give you his, because why would he? It’s his jacket after all. But when you saw him shrug it off of his shoulders your mind went in every direction, trying to find every possible reason for him to do that.

“Here,” he said. “You probably need this more than I do.”

“No I couldn’t,” you said. He was being so kind already walking you to the station. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just use my quirk.”

He really was being too kind.

Todoroki ushered you over to the sidewalk and the two of you began chatting. Questions like “what got you into yoga?” and “why did you decide to become a hero?” popped up here and there. But mostly he was thinking about how cute he looked bundled up in his jacket. The sleeves were too long on you so you bunched them up in your hands as mittens. You were too precious for this world.

You both came to a slow stop as you had reached the station. “Thank you for walking me,” you said.

“It’s no problem.” Todoroki absentmindedly tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. It was almost too much.

Kiss me, you thought. Please Shoto just kiss me now in front of everyone. Make the world know that I belong to one of the world’s greatest heroes.

He gently grabbed one of your hands, pushing up the sleeve with a finger or two. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, gently kissing your knuckles which sent shivers down your spine.

You nodded and watched as he started walking away. “Wait Shoto!” you yelled.

He turned around and looked at you.

“Your jacket.” You started fumbling with the zipper but your hands were shaking. They felt like they weren’t even your own.

“It’s alright,” he said. The train pulled up behind you. “I’ll get it back tomorrow. Or, you know, whenever.” He rubbed the back of his neck and held a hand up, bidding adieu.

You smiled like a giddy child tasting candy for the first time. You zipped the jacket up high and buried your face into the neck of it. You stayed like that during the entire train ride, taking in his scent.

Todoroki had made it out of the station and let out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding. He grabbed his phone and began composing a long text to Momo. He read it once before deleting it, wrote out another and deleted that too. He finally decided that the long message was the wrote route to go. He left it off very short and sweet.

“Thank you.”

#bnha-halloween2019 #bnha x reader #todoroki x reader #shoto torodoki

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cycwrites · 6 years ago

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Switching Gears Part 1 - Feud

Words: 4200

Rating: M (Eventually. I think.)

Tumblr Master Post

Also on AO3 and FFN

A/N: A Staubrey AU that came out of an incredibly random conversation on Discord (that people other than me were having) about how popular bicycles are in some cities and that there can actually be too many for the number of bike racks in some locations. So, I said I wanted to see a bike brawl.

May have been intended to be part of Staubrey week as Friends to Enemies, but I’m a lazy writer.

Thanks as always to @tiny-maus-boots for the constant encouragement.

Special thanks to @aliciameade for giving me the nudge I needed for the title.

-----------------------------

~A~

“Hey, that was my spot!”

Aubrey frowned at the brunette who was swinging one incredibly long leg over her bike.

“Pardon?” Taking out one earbud, the other woman looked over the top of her sunglass at Aubrey. “Did you say something?”

“I said, that’s my spot.” Aubrey gestured to the rack. “I was waiting for the other person to leave.” Truthfully she’d lost track of time while checking her phone and hadn’t noticed when the bike she’d been waiting for had left but that still didn’t excuse taking her spot.

“Oh.” The brunette shrugged. “There’s one right there that’s opened up.” She pointed two racks down and pulled out a chain from her backpack.

“Then you use that one, I was here first.” Aubrey couldn’t believe that people still didn’t observe common courtesy. It was just as annoying as when someone pulled into the parking spot she’d been patiently waiting for.

“It’s just a bike rack; we’re all in front of the same building.” Ignoring Aubrey’s scoff she knelt and wrapped the chain around her front tire and the rack. “Nothing worth losing your cool over.”

“I am not losing my cool!” Aubrey insisted, though maybe it was louder than she intended as several other people looked at them as they passed by them on the way into or out of Stretch It Out, the dance/yoga/fitness studio that Aubrey visited almost daily.

Staring Aubrey deadass in the eye, the other woman pulled out a lock and fastened it in place. “You should try yoga, might help you unclench a little.”

“Unclench?!” Aubrey couldn’t believe the audacity of this woman.

“Yeah,” the brunette stood easily, one long finger circling in front of her own face. “You’d be cuter if you didn’t have that pinched expression.” She plucked her sunglasses off and settled them on top of her head. “Though,” her head tilted and her eyes flicked up and down Aubrey’s body. “I kind of like that nose flare you’ve got going on right now.”

Aubrey saw red and by the time she’d blinked it away all she saw was a brunette braid entering the building in front of her.

“Did she just walk away from me?” Aubrey stared for another couple seconds until she realized she was making even more of a scene by sitting on her bike and talking to herself. With efficient movements she slipped off the bike and walked it over to the next rack. As if nothing had happened, she locked it up and made her way into the building.

Aubrey spent the entirety of her spin class thinking of what she’d say if she ever saw that smug brunette again. So what if she liked that particular spot, it wasn’t anything unusual for someone to have preferences on things. Sure, it wasn’t like ‘Cheers’ and she wasn’t Norm to be greeted by shouts of her name when she pulled up, but she’d been chaining her bike there more often than not, at least four days a week, since she moved to town three years ago.

“Great job, Aubrey!” A cheerful voice called over the music and Aubrey’s eyes snapped to the front of the room where the instructor, Flo, was beaming at her. “That’s the kind of energy I like to see, yes!”

Aubrey looked down and realized she had a death grip on the handles and was powering through whatever the current exercise was. Forcing herself to relax she eased back on the tension, not wanting to wear herself out before the end of class. When it was over, she moved to the next room and stretched out muscles that were definitely more sore than normal.

‘I am so going to feel this tomorrow,’ Aubrey thought as she took a shower. ‘Might have to skip the Friday class.’

Feeling calmer she changed into a fresh set of bicycle shorts and tank top before heading back out into the late afternoon sunshine. She certainly wasn’t looking around for a certain annoying woman to give her another piece of her mind. Except maybe she wasn’t thinking of where she was going and, moving on autopilot, went to her bike rack and was confused by the fact that hers wasn’t there. In fact, for one brief moment she thought her bike had been stolen before it all came flooding back to her. Moving to her bike, she knelt to remove the chain, starting to wrap it around her seat post before a thought struck her.

It was beyond petty, she definitely recognized that, but still found herself walking back to the… the... interlopers bike. Casually, she wrapped the chain she still held around the frame and the rack. Then, before she could think twice, she snapped her lock around it and stood up, moving quickly back to her own bike and sliding it free of the rack. Pushing it to the road, she took her place on the seat and secured her helmet. Just before she put her earbuds in she heard a loud “What the fuck?” behind her. Unable to resist, she looked over her shoulder.

The brunette was crouched by her bike, tugging at Aubrey’s chain. “What kind of asshole would…” She broke off and looked up, her eyes searching before locking on Aubrey with a furious intensity. Aubrey gave her a smug grin and finished putting in her earbuds as the other woman took a step forward. “Why the fu-”

The rest of it cut off by her music, Aubrey turned her back and gave the bell mounted on her handlebars a jaunty ring before she took off down the street. Her good mood completely restored she headed to her favorite bike shop to replace the chain and lock that had been lost in a very good cause.

When she’d first moved to town a few years ago, it was because she was tired of LA and its constant bustle and rush. She wanted to live somewhere she could slow down and not always feel like she was falling behind just because she wanted to take a breath once in a while. As she’d packed up her tiny apartment that almost cost more than the rental house she was using until she got her own, she decided that she was going to get a bicycle and use it to explore her new home.

In her research she found several shops but had originally dismissed One for the Road because the name made her think of drinking and driving and anywhere that would even vaguely promote that was obviously not a place to be taken seriously. So, once she arrived, she’d started down her meticulously researched list with high hopes. By the time she’d gotten to the bottom of it all of them had been checked off for one of two reasons: They had talked down to her or tried to get her number from the second she’d opened the door. Or both.

One day she had been taking a walk through an as yet unseen part of town when she happened to look up as she was passing a small, unassuming storefront tacked onto the end of the strip mall she’d been perusing. It had lacked all the flash of the shops she’d visited over the past three weeks but the name was definitely familiar: One for the Road. Since it couldn’t be any worse than the other dozen places she’d checked out, Aubrey made her way inside.

Beca Mitchell may have been a small package of sarcasm wrapped in flannel but she was extremely knowledgeable about bicycles and delivered her information without any of the condescension or thinly disguised leers that Aubrey had found elsewhere. She’d asked Aubrey her reasons for wanting a bike, where she’d wanted to go with it – merely city streets or if she wanted to also take it into the mountains that weren’t very far away – and began to show her different models based on her answers.

When she’d left she had a new bike and her first friend in her new home. Over several return visits to adjust things here and there or pick up a few accessories – like a package rack on the back so she could ride her bike to the store and get more than would fit in her backpack – the two of them had become closer than Aubrey had ever been to anyone in LA. In addition to a platonic ‘date night’ every Friday, they had lunch or dinner at least twice a week – though they usually managed more than that – and that was where Aubrey headed after leaving the fitness studio.

By the time she got to Beca’s shop her mood had continued to improve and she was singing softly under her breath with her music as she pushed her bike through the door. Pausing just inside she turned off her phone and looked around. To the right was a slender Asian woman working over a bike mounted to one of several repair stands along one side of the main room. Two eyes peered around the front tire and blinked at her.

“Hey Est…” Aubrey hesitated, studying her closely. “…Lil…” She trailed off again, clearing her throat awkwardly. “How are you?” It was lame and she knew it, but talking to Beca’s assistant sometimes proved… difficult. She waited for a response but the other woman only stared at her for a moment more before going back to whatever she had been doing before Aubrey walked in.

‘Must be Lilly today.’ Aubrey thought to herself as she walked her bike to the back of the store and tucked it behind the counter.

She never quite knew how to react to the mechanic as apparently on any given day she either went by Lilly or Esther and you wouldn’t know which until she talked. Or, rather, if she didn’t. Beca had tried to explain it once but Aubrey refused to believe that any story that had someone declaring “Satan left my body!” could have any truth to it. It was far more likely that the woman had a split personality, one more outgoing than the other. ‘Still,’ she thought as she made her way back to Beca’s office. ‘Might as well stay on her good side. Just in case.’

“Anyone home?” Aubrey knocked on the doorframe and leaned against it.

“Hey, Aubrey.” Beca said as she looked up from her computer. “I’m almost ready for lunch, just need a few.”

“No problem.” Aubrey shrugged off her pack and dropped down into the visitor chair tucked into the corner. “I’m also going to need a new chain and lock.”

Beca’s brow lifted. “Really? How did you manage to lose that?”

Aubrey bit her lip. “I wouldn’t say I lost it, exactly. I know where it is.”

“Okay, hold that thought.” Beca held up her hand. “There’s obviously a story but if I don’t get this done Lilly doesn’t get paid on Friday.” Beca looked back down at her laptop. “The last time I was a day late she quit for two weeks and I’m not losing my best repairwoman just before the summer starts.”

Aubrey settled into the chair and crossed her legs. She knew she had about five minutes to come up with anything other than the truth or she was going to be teased mercilessly for the next two years. Except her normally sharp mind wasn’t being cooperative and she still hadn’t come up with any other plausible explanation by the time Beca closed the lid to her laptop and focused back in on Aubrey.

“Alright, spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill.” Aubrey deflected even though she knew it was a lost cause.

“Then why are you touching your throat?” Beca tilted her head. “You only do that when you’re nervous.”

Aubrey yanked her betraying hand down into her lap. “There is nothing to be nervous about.” Which was true, except maybe she knew she’d reacted badly to something minor and stupid and now that she had to explain it, felt even pettier than she knew she’d been earlier.

“Uh huh.” Beca leaned back in her chair. “You know you’re going to tell me and might as well just get it over with.”

Aubrey sighed. “Fine. I locked it around someone else’s bike at the studio.”

“What?” Beca frowned. “Why… would you…?”

“Someone took my spot.” Aubrey muttered and looked away.

“Aubrey Posen you never mumble and whatever you just said was quieter than Lilly on her silent days.” Beca leaned forward again, her tone confidential. “Was she hot?”

“What?!” Aubrey blinked. “Why would you jump to the conclusion that it was a woman?” She realized she was touching her throat again and forced herself to relax.

“Because the only time I’ve seen you anything less than confident was when you were interested in the owner of your studio.” Beca turned around and dug into the mini fridge in her office. When she turned back she had two bottles of beer. “Don’t give me the drinking and riding speech. We’re walking to lunch.”

Aubrey shrugged and took the bottle after Beca had taken off the cap. “I save that for special occasions now. So what? I thought the owner was pretty, sue me.” She took a drink to shut herself up.

Chloe Beale was not only a gorgeous redhead, but also was one of the nicest women Aubrey had ever met and she’d made Aubrey feel welcome the second she’d walked into Stretch It Out. She was also beautiful and Aubrey had felt an instant attraction that had, over time, faded as she’d never found the right moment to see if her interest was returned. Either Chloe was greeting people at the front desk, which was never empty, or somewhere else in the studio. She knew Chloe well enough that she felt comfortable greeting her by name if they passed, but it wasn’t like they’d had time to sit down and chat. And Aubrey never quite worked up the nerve to ask her to lunch before she’d decided the moment had passed.

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Beca took a sip of her own. “She’s also the only woman I’ve heard you call pretty.” She tilted her head. “I was starting to think I was going to have to start getting the names of women who come into the shop for you but… Maybe I don’t have to.”

“Shut up,” Aubrey laughed despite her annoyance. “I can find my own dates, thank you very much.”

“Did you have your number etched on the chain or something?” Beca grinned behind her bottle before she took another drink of her beer. “Hoping she’ll call you to chew you out… or to do something else with her mou-”

“No!” Aubrey interrupted quickly and shook her head. “It’s… it was just stupid, Beca.”

“Now that you’ve confirmed there is a woman, I have to hear the whole story. You never admit stupid things without a lot more teasing.” She sat back in her chair and waved her hand. “Continue.”

Sighing, Aubrey relented. “I’d gotten to the studio and someone was in my spot.”

“They assign you spots when you join?” Beca frowned. “That’s… weird.”

“They don’t. I just… I just like that particular spot. It’s right up front and usually available when I go.” Aubrey took another drink as a stalling tactic.

“You do sometimes get set in your patterns and ideas about things.” But Beca said it without malice and Aubrey took no offense. “I remember you telling me about how you avoided my shop based on the name and never even looked at the glowing reviews all my customers had left me.”

“Gee you’re so humble,” Aubrey teased.

“I’m the best and that’s why my Dad gave me controlling interest before he went gallivanting off to Europe with his new wife.” Beca lifted one shoulder. “Plus I’ve been working here since I was sixteen, so I know the bikes and make sure to keep up on the new innovations.”

“If you’re the best, why are you in this strip mall instead of in a big building with a big flashy showroom?” It was something Aubrey had wondered before but never got around to asking.

“Because I hate people.” Beca shrugged. “Maybe one day I’ll expand, but until then I’m good with the customers I have right now.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think I’m going to let you distract me with talking about the business, Aubrey.”

“Fine.” Aubrey pursed her lips before continuing. “The person who was in my spot – yes my spot,” she said pointedly when Beca smirked at her, “was getting ready to leave. She was unchaining her bike, so I pulled out my phone to check my email. I was answering my brother’s latest nag to come visit him on his next leave at home and didn’t see them leave. By the time I looked back up a new person was pushing their bike into the rack.”

“How dare.” Beca murmured.

“And I wasn’t expecting it, because obviously I was standing there and waiting – like any polite person with a parking spot – and may have told her to get out of my spot.”

“Woman, confirmed.” Beca said sagely.

“You want the story or you want to make fun of me?” Aubrey snapped.

“Both?” Beca lifted her brows. “Both are good for me.”

“Sorry,” Aubrey shook her head. “I didn’t mean to rip your head off.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got a thick skin. But please, continue.” Beca made a show of drawing an invisible zipper across her lips.

“But she didn’t move and just locked her bike up while staring at me the whole time.” Aubrey frowned when Beca snickered. “It’s rude, Beca.” Aubrey took a drink of her beer, feeling annoyed all over again. “Then she told me to try yoga because it might help me unclench.” Aubrey gritted her teeth when Beca almost snorted out the mouthful of beer she’d just taken.

“Is she still alive?” Beca gasped as she finally managed to swallow the liquid instead of spraying it all over her desk.

“Yes, Beca.” Aubrey said tartly before taking a breath and then pausing. Maybe she shouldn’t tell Beca the rest of it; it would only give her more ammunition.

“Surprising. And for that you sacrificed your chain and lock?” When Aubrey remained silent, still considering her options, Beca searched her face. “Oh, that’s not the end of it, is it.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m starting to regret how well you know me.” Aubrey picked at the label on her bottle. “You’re not going to believe me if I say it was, are you?”

“Nope,” Beca said cheerfully. “So you might as well tell me now in the safety of my office instead of at lunch. In public.”

Aubrey sighed again. “She said… She told me I’d be cuter if my face wasn’t so pinched, but apparently my nose flares when I’m angry and she kind of liked it.” Aubrey snapped her mouth shut; she hadn’t meant to say that last part. It had no bearing on anything else and now she’d never hear the end of it.

“You know what I got out of that?” Beca said after a moment of silence. “That she thinks you’re cute.”

Aubrey huffed out a breath. “Of course that’s all you heard.”

Beca shrugged. “So, was she cute?”

“I literally saw red, Beca.”

“That… is not an answer, Aubrey. So my assumption here is – yes.” Beca took another drink. “Office or public, Bree.”

“She was taller than me, legs like a giraffe, brunette hair in a braid.” Aubrey said as casually as possible.

“Giraffe, huh?” Beca mused. “What color eyes?”

Aubrey drained the last of her bottle. “No idea, sun was in mine. Are we done? Can we go to lunch now?”

“Sure, Bree.” Beca finished her own beer. “Just as soon as you tell me why you did the thing.”

“I don’t even know,” Aubrey admitted. “I’d blocked it out during the after class stretch and my shower and when I came out I saw her bike in my spot and thought my own had been stolen. Then when I remembered the whole thing – which apparently did wonders for my energy while in class, I might actually hurt tomorrow – I got angry all over again. I had unchained my bike and the stupid thought popped into my head that it’d serve her right if I locked her bike to the rack.” She couldn’t help blushing with her next admission. “So I did.”

“I think that’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard you admit and I’m so proud right now.” Beca wiped a fake tear from her eye.

“Shut up.” Aubrey felt her embarrassment begin to fade. “It was dumb, I know it was. But… she just was so…”

“Hot?” Beca offered.

“Infuriating.” Aubrey sneered. “Smug.”

“Hot,” Beca said again, grinning.

“Whatever,” Aubrey rolled her eyes.

“What kind of bike did she have?” Beca asked suddenly.

“What?” Aubrey blinked and frowned. “I don’t know; why do you want to know?”

Beca shrugged. “Professional interest.”

“Well, I don’t remember.” Aubrey said but Beca just stared at her. “Ugh, fine. One of the Canyons. I don’t know which because they all look alike.”

“She’s serious about bikes though, those German bikes can cost a pretty penny depending on what model.” Beca mused then made a sour face. “Probably goes to that German Amazon’s shop.”

Sensing the tables were about to be turned in the teasing department, Aubrey kept her face blank. “What was the name of it again? I can never remember.”

“Das Speed Machine.” Beca said in her most deadpan voice then rolled her eyes. “Stupid name for a shop. I think she did it just so she could shorten it to DSM and slap their name on every product they sell just to jack up the price.”

“That’s right.” Aubrey nodded. “Does that guy still follow her around and do half her talking for her, like she’s too good to do it herself?”

“Yup,” Beca nodded slowly. “I’ve always wondered about their relationship.”

Aubrey shuddered. “I don’t and don’t you dare put that thought in my head.” She half laughed but smothered it quickly “You know what I think?”

Beca looked at her warily. “Do I want to know?

“I think you have a thing for her.”

Beca shot upright in her chair. “What?! I do not!”

“You stutter and flail whenever she’s around.” Aubrey waited for half a heartbeat. “And stand on your tiptoes.”

Beca gaped at her. “That… that means nothing!”

“You also thought her sweat smelled like cinnamon.” Aubrey pointed out. She’d been waiting for the right moment to use that line and the glee she felt at finally being able to was probably sadistic.

Beca’s eyes widened. “How was I supposed to know there was an elephant ear vendor behind us!”

Aubrey crossed her legs primly. “Because your race ended at an outdoor fair and you had just pointed at it and said you wanted to get one.”

Beca’s mouth worked but nothing came out for several long seconds. Finally she slumped in her chair. “Maybe I just need a taller pair of shoes.” She looked up at Aubrey, one eye closed. “But I do not have a thing for her. She’s not my type.”

“Oh?” Aubrey prompted when Beca didn’t continue. “Tall and smells like cinnamon isn’t your type?”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Beca shook her head. “No – condescending and rude as hell. One day, though, one day I’m going to beat her and it will be glorious.” She sighed and her eyes went distant.

“And I’ll be there cheering you on,” Aubrey agreed as she stood up. “Lunch?”

“Yup.” Beca stood up and pushed her chair in, grabbing both bottles of beer. Detouring behind the counter to recycle them, Beca called out, “Lilly, you’re in charge. Please try not to scare anyone off again?” Without waiting for an answer, knowing one wouldn’t be heard even if it was forthcoming, Beca led the way out of the building.

When they reached the sidewalk, Aubrey pulled her sunglasses back out. “You know, you’re one to talk.” She put her sunglasses on and turned to Beca. “Why do you still call it One for the Road when all it does is make you sound like you advocate drunk driving?”

“Because my dad thought it was funny. Besides, you vetoed my alternate name idea.” Beca accused as they walked toward the restaurant.

“You can’t name your business The Cycle-Path just because you think it’s a funny play on psychopath. Which you are not.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Probably.”

“Buzzkill.” Beca muttered. “Just for that, you get to buy lunch.”

“It was my turn anyway, so nice try.” Aubrey tilted her head back and let the sun warm her face. It was a nice afternoon, the walk was short and she was about to have a great lunch with her best friend.

She definitely was not thinking of a certain, long legged brunette and what she’d say if they crossed paths again in the future.

#staubrey #mitchsen brotp #aubrey posen #stacie conrad #beca mitchell #cyc writes #switching gears

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