#at just a little over 90 minutes this still somehow feels a bit strung out‚ taking an age to get to the temple business and with far too

[erinelezabeth920]

Love in the Time Of

Nostalgia. Do you remember the last trip you went on? Maybe it was a road trip, or a flight above patchwork plains? Or maybe a visit to family, the old and familiar grating with the growth of life? Do you remember that feeling of just... moving? The passing trees, the stirring as the landscape shuffles and re-arranges itself into your own soul puzzle. It’s a wanderlust- inherent, vital and deep. I remember wind on the mountains- Wyoming maybe or wildflowers in a spring breeze in Colorado. I remember a trumpet in New Orleans in the rain, walking the streets in a whisky daze, taking in melodies that wedged their way into my body like the droplets that fell from the sky. Last night I drank rose and watched an episode of Ken Burns’ documentary on country music. They were at the beginnings, origins until 1930s or so. The sound of the banjo, harmonica, fiddle, mandolin all merging from different areas of the word- the banjo out of Africa and the Caribbean into the horrors of slavery, used to uplift out of a deep and lasting persecution until even the whispered legacy was taken and mangled for white gain. The mandolin from Italy and continental Europe, and the fiddle from the English ballads, Scottish Highlands all merging for something completely new. As I watched, and the melodies faded in and out, I remembered nights in the mountains trying to strum my little guitar under a desert moon. I remembered Indiana, driving through rain listening to bluegrass. I remembered stories my mother and aunts told me of my grandfather, who died when I was in high school. He used to sit on the porch through summer nights and strum his guitar, singing all the old country ballads out of the hills and radio of the 1930s, occasionally throwing in a yodel to the fireflies dotting the upstate New York corn fields. Add that to the Irish and Scottish heritage that runs through my veins, and I’m drawn to the fiddle and picking like a moth to light. I had been listening to an episode of ‘Dolly Parton’s America’ while I cooked dinner; pasta and vegetables while the rain pounded outside. From my headphones, Jad Abumrad had been describing Dolly’s ‘Tennessee Mountain Home’ and the essence of nostalgia in country music. A longing for simpler times. ‘Country music,’ he had said as I strained the pasta into the sink, “is immigrant music.” He went into it a bit. Country music, at its core, is about a longing for something that is gone. A home that once was. A front porch. The sound of a river, or the whistle of a train to unknown places. A sense of home that can’t even be expressed except through a melody that you somehow feel you’ve known your whole life. Once the podcast ended, I sat with my glass of wine out of a can and pasta in front of the TV.  Andy was hosting a DnD sesion in the bedroom. I scrolled until I found the PBS episode. I drank my wine and slurped pasta as we went deep into black and white photos and voiced-over stories as Ken Burns does. The origins of those old folk songs we know well, (think “O Brother Where Art Thou” soundtrack), one song taken from the other until they’re blended into our conscious and unconscious history. “Music,” Jad had said, “is the soundtrack to our lives. Wherever we go, its with us. And that’s how we mixed.” Jimmie Rodgers circa 1929 travelled around “catching songs.” He’d drive sometimes 90 miles into the hills to listen to someone singing in their kitchen, gather it up in a flutter of shifting memories and dust, and put it down to record. When “Mule Skinner Blues’ began playing over some old photos, I yelped, “Holy crap that’s Dolly’s song!” I knew it was an old folk tune, but I didn’t realize it was Jimmie Rodgers, the OG of country according to most. Dolly took the original lick and turned up the volume to 10. “That song,” Jad had said at one point, “is fire.” Twenty or so minutes later, as the episode credits rolled, lo and behold Dolly’s version began playing. I let the credits roll until finished. Then I turned off the TV and sank into the couch. Silence. 

“Okay Google,” I called to the kitchen, “...play ‘Mule Skinner Blues’ by Dolly Parton.” 

Jad’s right. That song is fire. 

When it finished, too lazy to bother, the Spotify algorithm marched on with the next song. It was Dolly’s voice, but she was singing ‘The Story.’ “Isn’t this Brandi’s song?” Andy asked from the computer where he was now playing video games.

“I think so?” I googled it. Brandi Carlisle, 2007. Dolly Parton cover. “Damn,” I said, “Dolly’s covering Brandi? That’s epic.” “Okay Google, play ‘The Story’ by Brandi Carlisle.” Dolly’s version was fine, but Brandi is the new queen. I laid on the couch and listened. As her gritty, smooth voice washed over me, I remembered Chattanooga, Tennessee in early September. I remembered sitting in a lawn of a big park, festival lights strung through the heavy leaves, a wide river, humid skies, a big moon. The day had been sweltering, but by the time Brandi came out for her headliner it had cooled to an ease. The grass was full of people, standing, sitting, or somewhere in between. The air dripped and hummed and turned indigo as she sang her first note.   Google then moved on to Joni Mitchell. Good job algorithm, because I happened to remember that Tennessee night in September, Brandi telling us that Joni was her idol. She was going to have a chance in a month or so to play the album ‘Blue’ all the way through for Joni herself. ‘I’m going to royally fuck up,” she told us. “I need to practice on you.” So she did. I closed my eyes. The moon reflected in scintillations on the river. I thought she sounded like warm honey. I went to get up, to turn off the music and go to bed. It was late and I had to work in the morning. As I walked over toward the kitchen the little white screen on the counter tucked behind the coffee maker, as if in a small act of defiance, struck up some solemn piano chords. The beginning of ‘I And Love And You’ by the Avett Brothers. I sighed softly, cursed the Spotify algorithm for being too damn good, and slowly walked back to the couch. I laid down and closed my eyes.

Immediately I saw in my mind the wide Columbia River at sunset, the sweeping rocks and plains of Eastern Washington. The music filled the gorge like a bowl, rising up as if from the river itself. I’ve seen the Avett Brothers twice live, both times at the Gorge Amphitheater sitting next to friends as the sky lit on fire. The clouds turned orange to dark blue, and the lights of the stage looked like heaven twinkling. I could feel the blanket beneath me, the cold grass, the gentle swaying of the bodies of my friends beside me. “Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in... are you aware the shape I’m in. My hands they shake my head it spins. Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in.” The mighty Columbia flowed dark and wide in the space beyond. 

(The Gorge, August 2019) Back in the apartment, eyes still closed as the notes lingered, trying to hold on to the wisps of memories, Google moved on to “The Joke”. Back to Brandi. If you know that song, I don’t need to explain. The music swelled. She basically shattered her emotions through the ceiling in a soaring arc of notes. I thought of her, young and unknown busking at Pike Place, the folk ringing through her voice surrounded by the grunge of the 90s in back bars and alleys. You can hear it in her songs, the moody gray sky, ocean and deep misty mountains, chunky guitar and angst. They try to put us in boxes, slap on labels but the joke’s on them. It’s ‘the rub’, as Ken Burns called it. Seattle and folk, Tennessee and jazz. Slavery and persecution, reconstruction and high rises. The rub of people and place, the mixing and sighing of ideas like notes mingling in the night air. “Imagine a ship,” says Jad. “Nineteenth century, whaling ship maybe in the Indian Ocean. Full of people from different cultures, places. What did they have with them? Likely instruments. And a lot of free time.” Do you remember the last trip you took? The sounds, the sights, the smells passing you by like dandelion seeds drifting in the wind. They latch onto your coarse sweaters, stick to your old shoes. Maybe they’re discarded, or they take root, slowly growing into something more. You know that scene at the end of Lord of the Rings, where Sam and Frodo are on the side of Mt. Doom and Frodo says, “No Sam, I can’t recall The Shire, nor the taste of strawberries?” Sometimos, especially recently, I feel like that. I know it’s dramatic, but it’s also true. The hug of a friend, a seething mass of bodies at a concert, the electricity of a new city, or moonlight floating on a river as Joni Mitchell is practiced to the Tennessee sky. It’s the rub, brushing up against life, re-inventing ourselves over and over, growing like the dandelion into our veins, a little newer each time.  I miss it. I told Google to turn off the music. The rain outside had stopped. I got up off the couch. Andy sat at the computer, headphones on. I brushed my teeth and went to bed, the silence of the apartment heavy as a blanket. And somewhere in the space between sleep and dreams, a fiddle flickered a tune, fading into the ether like moonlight falling on the dark water below.

[larosepompon]

Almost There - Ghost!Jungwoo x Reader

Hi all - have some paranormal fluff (I know - for once I’m not writing anything gory or dirty?? Christ on a Bike!) of a 90s ghost Jungwoo who resides in your apartment block.  A/N: A lot of the instances that I used in the story are things that often happened to me in my old family home. (obvs not making out with a ghost lol) We had a benevolent poltergeist that used to take pens and pencils and put them on top of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, turn lights on and off and pull out books from the bookshelf outside my room etc. If you want to know more about random crap that’s happened to me - send me an ask! Ghosties and the paranormal are my favourite discussion topics! Our story starts as many of these tales do; in a new apartment in a new city. Neo City’s downtown was conversely a mixture of old and new, for example, your apartment complex that was in a listed period building. Climbing the chequered-tile stairs, you carefully ascended to the third floor with the last of your moving boxes. Blowing some strands of hair out of your eyes, you caught a glimpse over your box of someone at the end of the hallway, watering plants under the stained-glass window. “Hi, nice to meet you!” Voicing out cheerfully as you bent down to put the box by your front door. Your smile faltering when the figure was already gone as you looked back up. Odd was the first thought in your head, patting your cheeks lightly to regain a sense of normality. 

The rest of the move went rather smoothly, digging out some old cassette tapes and vinyl’s, singing softly to old tunes as you hung pictures up on the teal walls, arranged soft furnishings and house plants around your large studio. Soon the light dimmed down and you found yourself sitting on the bench of your tall bay window – the feature that drew you to this particular flat in the first place. The sun cast her last golden rays as she bid you goodnight, bathing your limbs and face in a radiant warmth. The ice in your glass protesting as it began to melt, condensation pooling atop of your knee where your beverage was perched. Closing your eyes, you sighed with content, finally relaxing in a space you could finally call your own. Perhaps an hour or so went by with you nursing your drink and humming along to music from your childhood, when you heard a distinct knock at your door. Maybe it’s one of my neighbours you thought, padding over to unlock it. The hallway though, was empty, save for a small breeze that carried a sweet and green scent. “That’s the second time today… you can say hello if you want!” You call out into the hallway, seemingly at nobody. Letting some of the tension out of your shoulders as you close the door, you decide to get ready for bed after your long day. It’s not long until you’re wiping your face after brushing your teeth, making your way over to your comfy new bed, slipping under the covers. As you drift off to sleep, the bed dips and in comes the sweet fragrance once more. You dream of a handsome boy with curtains.

You’re thoroughly puzzled, looking for your toothbrush the next morning. It wasn’t until you looked up and it was placed on top of the medicine cabinet that you thought you had gone crazy. You had only one drink the previous night and had never been known to sleepwalk. Glancing at your reflection with a furrowed brow, all the rational thoughts go through your mind before ignoring it altogether. Today was your first full day living in the city, so you set off to explore new cafes, shops and relaxing spots. It was another sunny day, with a gentle breeze that ruffled your hair from time to time – making for the perfect day to watch the world go by. Well, that was what you had planned anyhow, if not for every café that you fancied being packed out. “Right, let’s not let this ruin our day…” you sigh under your breath, scanning your surroundings for something to take home. Settling on an artisan bakery with luscious pastries and sourdough in the window, you eyed up a few treats to pack up with you. Luckily the walk home was quite short, letting you take time to stroll through the bustling streets before reaching your new abode. As you fished for your keys in the depths of your bag nearing the landing, your peripheral view caught something that made you stop dead in your tracks: the back of someone’s frame going into your apartment, through your door. Scrambling to see if they had broken in, a wave of panic spread through you as your eyes scanned the – very closed – door. Your hand couldn’t help but shake lightly when your keys eased into the lock, making way for your entry. Flattening your palm to the surface, you pushed open the door, bracing yourself for what could be inside. Yet you found nothing… “Hello?! I-I j-just saw you come in here.” You blurt out into the space around you. “Is anybody there?” It was difficult to think yourself stupid at that very moment in time, heart hammering away in your chest, bravely trying to speak out at seemingly nothing. Luckily for you, a studio apartment leaves very little space for anyone (or anything) to hide in - so you eventually found yourself dropping your bags on the kitchen counter and scampering over to the bathroom to check for any strangers. Relief settled in when you found that indeed, nobody has broken into your apartment. Your eyes homed into your bedspread - with a single flowerhead lain on top of it. Like the ones in the hall… you remember, thoughts conflicting over whether this was a new-found stalker or something paranormal leaving you gifts on your bed. Still trembling, you carefully trod toward your bed, hair spilling over your shoulders as you leant down to pick up the flower. The petals a soft creamy colour, wrinkled at the edges, giving them an almost forlorn look to them. You thumbed the petals absentmindedly, all previous ill thoughts dissipating from your mind bringing a soft smile to your features. “Thank you…” you whispered into the air, a faded image of a tall, pretty boy smiling by your wall. 

For about a week you see or hear no sign of ghostly activity in your home or about the hallway, but often find yourself dreaming of the mystery boy with a bright smile and a very floppy, 90s haircut. You don’t recall ever meeting anyone like him before, often showing up in your dreams with ripped jeans and a check shirt or a denim jacket; he always appeared very friendly though. One night you hear his voice for the first time, a gentle tone that lulls you further into your slumber. Little did you know that the boy was sat beside you, smiling down at your sleeping figure, listening to your mumbled voice and quiet sighs as he stroked your hair as best as he could. You awoke feeling refreshed, recalling snippets from your dream while you poured yourself a fresh coffee. Pulling your hair into a high bun, you took your coffee to your sofa, lounging back to watch some mindless morning TV. After a while, when the black liquid in your mug had cooled, you felt a tingling sensation on your shoulder – followed by your pyjama top strap falling down. You went to pull it up again but the area felt unusually cold, with the tingling pressure now on your jaw. As if someone was cupping or stroking your face. For a moment you didn’t know how to react, turning your head slowly to the space beside you and noticing a small dip in the cushion. Your mouth was ajar in wonder, eyes drifting over what looked like an empty space in front of you. Somehow you knew it wasn’t at all. Closing your eyes, you leant into the feeling, letting the ghostly touch brush your lips and pull a soft smile from you. At least they seem affectionate your mind rings with the thoughts of dozens of scary movies depicting evil spirits. Your eyes slowly open, adjusting to the low lighting again, the odd sensation beginning to feel warm on your cheek and jaw. “Are you the boy from my dreams?” your voice came out barely louder than a whisper, scared to frighten whatever this was off. The touch stilled, as if unsure or surprised before retreating altogether. The sofa cushion slowly rose back to normal and you could only sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Gripping his hand close to his chest, the young man all but backed out of your apartment, cheeks both burning with embarrassment and a new resolve. He wanted you to notice him.  

your new job as a manager really took it out of you some days. While living in Neo City was great, you felt yourself getting more and more strung out with less time to make friends outside of the office, which also meant less time for yourself and relaxing at home. You had learnt to live with the occasional odd poltergeist activity or random noise in your apartment - having become an interesting and almost normal feature of living in your building. The unknown boy in your dreams becoming a weekly occurrence, your mind kept on wondering if he had any connection to what happened around you. His voice had such a soft lilt to it, laughter sincere and loud when the odd bits of your dream resurfaced in your mind. Fragments of conversation and cracking corny puns together often made you wake up with a smile, that lingering scent of Verbena hung in the air like tendrils.  The late August air draped over your shoulders with humidity, a moist sheen cloying to your every pore like a second skin. Buying a wireless plug for your aircon was your saving grace, programming it to come on 20 minutes before you usually walked through the door in the evening to escape the heat. Shutting the door quickly behind you, toeing off your shoes haphazardly before throwing your bag down onto the sofa, you headed to the bathroom for a much-welcomed cool shower. The refreshing spray of water leaving your skin raised and pert to the breeze of the A/C. Towelling yourself off by your bed, you felt the barest of touches run down your back before settling at your sides, holding you steady. Letting out a quiet gasp, you finished drying yourself, playing off the touch as just the breeze from the aircon unit. Standing unbeknownst behind you, a shy smile was painted on the features of your boy with the floppy hair as he watched you fondly put on your pyjamas. Later that night around 1am when you were fast asleep, the dulcet tones of Madonna from your cassette player broke through the silence of your apartment, causing you to stir. Groggily opening your eyes, you watched in amazement as the bed dipped beside you like someone had knelt down. You blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t still dreaming, but when an almost glowing apparition materialised into view, it was hard to say. There in front of you, leaning on his arm, was your weekly dream visitor. He appeared in muted colour, his smile and his boyish looks shining through the night as he gave a little nervous laugh at your expression. “It really is you!” You exclaimed, smile widening at the sight of the boy. Shuffling back a little, you sat up in bed, taking in all of him better. “It’s taken a lot of energy for me to appear like this, but I wanted for you to see me properly. I’m sorry it took so long.” His voice was so sweet, like honey as he spoke to you in the dark of your studio. “My name is Jungwoo, I used to live here – I’m sorry If I ever scared you! I’ve been wanting to say that for a while.” His eyes went wide as you could see the faintest trace of a blush on his faded appearance. “You’ve never really scared me, Jungwoo. I was confused at first but when I got used to you trying to catch my attention, I felt warm and happy that I had you here sometimes. You gave me the flower too, right?” Jungwoo nodded and watched your eyes sparkle under the moonlight streaming through your window. He thought you looked magical like this. Your warm hand reached out to see if you could cup his cheek and to your surprise, he felt soft and solid enough to touch. Upon contact with him, a rush of tingles zipped up your arm, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Jungwoo bravely pressed a kiss into your palm as you sat there admiring each other. “I’m y/n, I don’t know if you knew that already or not though.” The heat of your blush crept up your neck and face as you felt his lips on your palm. His eyes focused on yours as he reached up to hold your hand. “I knew, I saw it on your mail once. It’s such a pretty name for a pretty face~” Jungwoo’s giggle melts your heart, his lips brushing your knuckles cradled in his hands. “I don’t know if I’ll get another chance to say this but being here with you these last few months - I’ve really begun to like you y/n! I really love seeing you dance and sing in here, I love sitting beside you watching movies…but I do feel sad that I couldn’t wipe your tears when you cry. When you started noticing things I did, or talking to me in your sleep, it made my whole being so happy.” With his little confession, you shed a few tears, laughing through the sparkling wall they created in your vision. All this time you had been sleep-talking to him, the dreams of the boy all in his image. Gingerly, you pulled Jungwoo towards yourself, bringing his airy lips to slot against your own. Your spine tingled and skin raised as his hands carded through your hair, pulling you closer in his embrace. It was both wonderful and odd, kissing a ghost. He seemed solid enough to be there yet it was like thick air, holding you and invading your mouth with his cool, equally tingly tongue. He broke the kiss to dab his thumbs on your cheeks, before pecking them both softly. “I knew you meant no harm when I saw the flower on my bed that day. It made me feel wanted, as strange as that sounds. Thank you, Jungwoo, I really like you too.” Barely above a whisper, your words were just made for the two of you. His cheeks felt soft and your eyelids fluttered closed as you joined your mouths together again. Time was a precious gift, not knowing when you’d share another moment like this, you both made the most of the early hours of the morning. Sharing secrets and moments of your lives, facing each other against the pillows watching intently. Every so often indulging in more languid kisses and touches under the moonlight. The boy stroked your hair once again as he saw you eventually fall asleep, the sunrise not far behind your slumber. You awoke some hours later, the sun warm on your skin as it peered through your window, high in the sky. Hair and sleepwear feeling slightly dishevelled, you noticed that Jungwoo had kindly tucked you back under the covers. You suddenly felt a little morose at the thought of an undetermined time without being able to share another moment like that with your spectre again. Trying to push such thoughts from your mind, your arm stretched across the covers in aid to wake up when you came into contact with something. Fumbling for it further, your eyes crinkled with joy when you discovered it was a note that read: To the beautiful y/n, I feel alive again. I’ll still be here now and then, until the next time I can capture your kiss. Talking properly with you made me so happy, but I didn’t want to be too selfish and not let you rest. Keep playing the tunes of my time, singing to yourself – oh and wandering around in your underwear. 정우 xx You wet your lip with your tongue before giving an indignant huff. Well, he better be glad it’s summer…

[thebachelordiaries]

Two Engagements and a Funeral: ‘The Bachelor’ Premiere Recap

So here it is...what Bachelor producers have been waiting for since they created this show: a virgin Bachelor.

There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. As we all know it’s a social construct. Colton is clearly a virgin by choice, and like a girl said on Kaitlyn Bristowe’s podcast, he’s definitley gotten a bunch of bl*w j*bs in his life.

It’s annoying when people fixate on someone’s virginity. Kind of like during my freshman year of college when every guy I rejected would tell me I’m going to “die a virgin.” Well jokes on them because I’m still alive, but I digress.

What’s the opposite of 10 pounds of sh*t in a 5 pound bag? Whatever that word is, it perfectly described episode 1 of The Bachelor. The premiere was 90 minutes of content strung out into three hours. It’s not like my time is precious, but if you’re going to make us sit for three hours, at least keep me glued to the screen.

The only good thing about this unnecessarily long episode was the Chris Harrison montage, which got me my first viral tweet of the season:

My tweet was like seven likes short of 3k likes, but I’m not obsessing over it or anything...

I enjoyed this premiere when I wasn’t watching random people I don’t know get engaged. It had all the makings of a great premiere: a girl in a sloth costume, some “villain” interrupting Colton multiple times, an annoying amount of virgin jokes, at least two beauty queens, and not one, not two, but THREE kisses on night one. Not bad for a virgin who can’t drive. The only thing missing was the drunk girl, but we did have a Cinderella, so that’s close enough.

I never know how to write about the premiere. There are 30 (THIRTY!!!) contestants. There’s no way I can write thoroughly about every single one. And it’s not like all 30 of them were memorable. 

A special few got video intro packages:

Cassie— a California blonde who is a speech pathologist (but not really because she needs more education). She surfs and looks like Hillary Duff a la Lizzie McGuire days.

Hannah B.— an Alabama beauty queen who seems cracked out on too much coffee, but for some reason I really like her. She felt the need to mention she only kissed four guys despite not being a virgin. Children, keep some things to yourself, ok?

Katie— She’s a dancer from the “east coast.” I like how The Bachelor just glosses over the northeast, but focuses heavily on someone’s southern roots. Rude!

Heather— her occupation is “Never Been Kissed.” That’s all you will ever need to know about her. If producers don’t force her to kiss Colton by at least episode two and then change her occupation to “Been Kissed,” then they failed at their jobs.

Onyeka— She comes from a Nigerian family and claims she “doesn’t care” what people think of her. I highly doubt that.

Nicole— Why do I just want to give her a hug? Nicole hails from Miami, so she’s bilingual with a nice accent. Also, her brother has autism and she says they’re a “package deal.” Be still my heart.

Kirpa— The dental hygiene jokes have been played out. I want no further mention of her profession from here on out. 

Demi— Here we go. We found the girl who is carrying this season. Demi is a little firecracker whose mom is in prison. Her mom is expected to get out soon. Could you imagine that hometown date? The Bachelor may finally get its Emmy.

Memorable limo entrances

Demi was first out the limo, which means she may be a strong contender. She said she hasn’t dated a virgin since “she was like 12″ which is like, kind of concerning? I hope she wasn’t serious, or else I’m gonna like, call the cops. She seems very humble.

Caelynn, who was Miss USA first runner-up (WTF is she doing on this show?), came out the limo in her “Miss North Carolina” sash, but turned it to reveal a “Miss Underwood” on the other side. I guess that means she’s vying to become Colton’s sister.

Sydney quit her job to come here and somehow thinks she made the right choice. Big mistake. Huge.

Cassie came out in a floral dress that seemed way too casual for the occasion, and also out of season. She is however clearly getting a good edit considering the lovey-dovey music that accompanied her entrance.

Kirpa just looked classically beautiful. She had her hair french-braded, which in a world of beachy waves was nice to see. Also she wore a gorgeous sparkly purple dress. I was a fan.

Kaitlyn came out carrying a balloon that looked like an apple. She popped it and told Colton, “I just popped your cherry,” however we all know it wasn’t a cherry balloon.

Katie did a V-card card trick.

Alex came out like a sloth— literally and figuratively. She wore a sloth costume and moved/spoke at a very slow pace. I know some people enjoyed this bit, but I personally did not.

Tracy, a wardrobe stylist, called herself the “fashion police” yet wore a cutoff wife beater. Is it possible for her to arrest herself? 

Bri— we all got to see her limo entrance leading up to the premiere as it was promoted on social media. And her entrance went extremely viral: she pretended to have an Australian accent to “do what she can to stand out.” I respected her hustle.

Catherine brought Lucy her 10-year-old Pomeranian with her. She is the Real Housewife of the Bachelor Mansion and obviously this season’s villain.

Important stuff that happened inside the mansion

Colton kissed three girls (3! THREE!) By Hannah B.’s standards, he just needs to kiss one more girl and then he’s no longer a virgin. I call that basic math. He kissed Caelynn, Katie and Hannah G. I will admit Katie looked very thirsty for that kiss. She was very much up all in his personal space. Colton also looked like he wanted to kiss Cassie, but she wasn’t really giving him the opportunity. He kissed Hannah G. after he gave her the first impression rose. I don’t want to brag, but I knew he was going to give it to her after they first spoke.

Side bar: Hannah G. looks like and has mannerisms similar to Heidi Pratt. It took me awhile to figure it out, but I feel a major relief after it clicked for me.

Catherine interrupted Colton about four times. Clearly this was a produced move, but yeah, this doesn’t make her very likable among the other girls.

Rose Ceremony

About seven girls went home: sloth girl (bless up), some girl who came dressed up as Cinderella, Devin the TV reporter who I knew wasn’t going to last, Tahzjuan, and other girls who don’t matter.

Rose order is pretty important, so here it is:

Caelynn

Katie

Alex B

Hannah B

Onyeka

.....

i 

forget

the

rest

My top 5 predictions based on the first night in no particular order:

Hannah G.

Caelynn

Cassie

Demi

Katie

Wildcards: Alex B, Onyeka, Hannah B.

Wait— I forgot about the most important celebrity doppelganger of them all: Caelynn and Furby

Who is your favorite contestant so far? Comment below or DM me.

[thesinglesjukebox]

VAMPIRE WEEKEND - HARMONY HALL [7.10] So I was going to re-use one of our taglines from previous entries as a hat-tip to self-referencing, but none of them made sense in context. So you'll have to make do with editorial whingeing instead.

Joshua Copperman: Like most people, I pressed play expecting to gawk at how much of a mess this is, and "Harmony Hall" initially sounds like the slick, misguided pop crossover everyone feared, but the melancholy edge of Modern Vampires is both less noticeable and more present than ever. An early Vampire Weekend song could start with that guitar riff, but not the low, warm synth pad. Even Modern Vampires would be gloriously cluttered with sounds, yet Manny Marroquin's mix is intensely spacious -- the choirs panned to the left and stay there, the delays ping-ponging then abruptly cutting out. No one listens to Vampire Weekend for social commentary, but Koenig goes beyond "Trump bad," instead focusing on the return of hate groups and the reemergence of anti-semitism (hiding that particular vulnerability "beneath these velvet gloves"). The callback to "I don't want to live like this/but I don't want to die" works because how tired it sounds. The line was gleeful and drawn-out in 2013, but in 2019 it's just a throwaway line to nod to the default mood. Another week, a thousand media jobs laid off, another hate crime, another swastika on a college campus, every refresh of a Twitter feed another potential verse of "Love It If We Made It" (obviously intentional on Matt Healy's part.) This isn't happy-but-secretly-sad; it's what happy sounds like when sad is normal. [9]

Ian Mathers: I think I emitted an audible little laugh in my cubicle when I first heard "I don't want to live like this, but I don't want to die" (you and me both, buddy). Something about that "Sympathy for the Devil" rolling percussion and the piano and even Ezra Koenig's current delivery makes this mostly sound like something I might have heard on oldies radio on a family road trip when I was a kid (i.e. before they added the 80s and 90s to those stations), except... better? I don't know, every time I think I'm done with these guys they grab me again somehow. I guess you can sign me up for [checks stories about new album]... Father of the Bride. Sigh. [8]

Claire Biddles: Vampire Weekend are virtuosos at encapsulating a very evocative (and I hate to say it, very millennial) melancholic yearning: a hyper-specific nostalgia for the recent past. How delicious, then, to find this distilled not just in the lyrical content, but conceptually: a callback to an album track from five years ago, when our troubles felt so huge. [7]

Thomas Inskeep: Starts out sounding like wimpy early '70s male folk, and by just past the chorus it's almost got a '73 Stones vibe going (we're this close to a gospel choir coming in, and yes, that was a vibraslap) -- so is this their Arcade Fire arena move? The biggest problem here is that, it's still Vampire Weekend, so it's still all too wimpy. [4]

Katie Gill: This is a friggin' weird song. The beautiful discordance of the depressing lyrics with the bubbly sound makes sense. The surprise piano solo in the middle of the song kind of makes sense. But I just can't wrap my head around why this song sounds so intensely dorky. Is it the plinky piano background? Is it that dumb percussion bit before "anger wants a voice"? Is it the Is it the fact that it's 2019 and I'm getting Paul Simon flashbacks? Seriously, swap out that piano for a horn section and you've got the b-side to "You Can Call Me Al." No matter what, you have to hand it to Vampire Weekend. They've certainly made something with a unique sound and something that I suspect will be talked about for weeks, if not months. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: With "Harmony Hall," Koenig's revealed himself as having anxieties aplenty, and it's loudly signaled with a self-referential lyric ("I don't wanna live like this, but I don't wanna die"). There's grief caused by the corruption hidden inside seemingly honorable institutions, and the song's chipper and (regrettably) Grateful Dead-like instrumentation mimics this duplicity. But more than this, such revelations have found Koenig reflecting on his own identity -- as a musician, as a Jewish-American, as a member of the upper middle class -- and what he can do. In hearing the guitar figure constantly repeat, one becomes privy to its false sense of security: "I thought that I was free from all that questioning/But every time a problem ends, another one begins." The melody's smooth ascent and cascading descent is an unmistakable Dave Longstreth contribution, but this fact doesn't make "Harmony Hall" any less about Koenig's personal turmoil; it finds him stepping out to unearth concrete answers. [5]

Josh Love: Vampire Weekend are valedictorians of indie's last decade, having not made a significant misstep, cranking out the consistently tuneful and clever alt-pop that's made them a hip millennial's staple and a top-shelf critical darling. Unlike say MIA or LCD Soundsystem or Arcade Fire, they've never seemed like overreaching or underdelivering, all of their endeavors perfectly-coiffed. After a lengthy hiatus, not a hair's out of place and you can't point to anything being demonstrably wrong here. What's worrying though is that "Harmony Hall" accomplishes in five minutes no more than it could have managed in half that time. The first couple of verses and chorus are catchy, smart, and sufficiently dynamic, Koenig meditating on Jewishness and doing call-backs to the even more faith-informed "Finger Back" from the band's last album, over a piano lick that puts me in mind of Andrea True Connection's "More, More, More," or more more more specifically, the better song that nicked it, Len's "Steal My Sunshine." Too bad the last half of "Harmony Hall" is all diminishing returns; I kept waiting for something to make this elongated running time worthwhile but the back end offers nothing more than a baroque passage and a new piano flourish or two. Hopefully this song's not entirely a harbinger for the remainder of Father of the Bride; I'd hate for Vampire Weekend to have aged into being that former head of the class who's a self-satisfied bore at the reunion. [6]

Vikram Joseph: I've always associated Vampire Weekend with clear, sparkling late winter days; there's something about their sound that lends itself to that kind of light, and a wide-eyed optimism that suggests warmer days might not be far off. Fitting, then, that "Harmony Hall" should appear now; they've never sounded so crisp, so open or just so much like Paul Simon. The intricate Baroque guitar and flurries of electric piano are accoutrements which could render a song starchy and formal, but Vampire Weekend carry them off with effortless flair and a nonchalant grin. Ezra Koenig alludes deftly, though unambiguously, to politics; "Anger needs a voice/voices wanna sing/Singers harmonise 'til they can't hear anything" is a pretty eloquent description of the chaos of current discourse. Much like a young Stuart Murdoch sang with just the right combination of pathos and conspiratorial wit to pull off Belle & Sebastian's red-wine-stained stories of sexual misadventure and tentative affection, Koenig's voice has an intoxicating blend of empathy, lightness and desperation which in the past has allowed him to get away with a lot of highbrow wordplay, and which here makes the song's headline ("I don't wanna live like this, but I don't wanna die") feel like both a weary joke and a howl of personal, political despair that rings out through decades. Musically, though, "Harmony Hall" is a fleet-footed thing of joy, the balletic "ooooh"s in the post-chorus like arcs strung out across the country, a reminder that beauty exists even in dark times. [9]

Matias Taylor: Getting the words to dance as much as that nimble piano line is tricky, but six years on Vampire Weekend's lyrical and melodic gifts are as sharp as ever. [9]

Alfred Soto: As allusive as usual -- I hear George Michael, "Mrs. Robinson," their own "Finger Back" -- the latest from the sometime quartet, an-album-every-six-years men of leisure, affirms their faith in keeping them from the brink of the great surrender. "I thought I was free from all that questioning," Ezra Koenig yelps, a self-deception. He's smarter than that. Yet he clings to his arpeggios as a grandmother to a handrail. He knows music. It won't keep him safe. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[rohobi]

Pulse 04 | (m)

Kim Taehyung | Medical AU |  Smut | Angst | Trauma | Patient death | Medical Jargon | Medical Inaccuracies | Mature Content | Multi-fandom Medical Team |  Warning: Mentions of anxiety, violence, trauma and blood, death, dying, cardiac arrests. Do not read this if you are triggered by those. Look after you. 

Wordcount: 9k; I got ahead of myself editing. Shout out to my eternal love @blushoseoks for being my beta and biggest supporter. I’ll do shout outs every chapter from now on :)  LISTEN ▶

CHAPTER SUMMARY: ❝ Save me, I need your love before I fall. Love at first emergency trauma.❞

↳ INDEX → CHAPTER 5

↣ Hour 1-2 | Post-Explosion

“This is your Emergency Department speaking. There has been a mass casualty event with a total number of expected casualties exceeding current support levels. We are requesting urgent assistance from the following departments: neurosurgery, thoracics, burns and plastics, renal and urology, paediatrics, vascular and orthopaedics, to accommodate the demand for critical care. The first 48 hours are critical, please present to ED immediately and assist, thank you.”

“Taehyung, we need to go!” Yoongi shouts, pulling Taehyung by the lapel of his coat and pushing him through the stairwell doors like a doll. “Get off your fucking phone!”

“They’re saying it’s a terrorist attack?” Taehyung stammers, letting Yoongi pull him into the stairwell. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

His voice echoes off the walls, as Yoongi shouts. “Shut the fuck up Taehyung, we don’t have time for this. Put your phone away and get your fucking stupid fucking head in the game.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Now’s not the time to think about anything else but our hospital, okay?”

“Fine.”

Taehyung takes a deep breath. Yoongi was right. It wasn’t the time to talk about this, they needed to move. He shoves his phone back into his pocket but the pictures of fire and smoke tattoo themselves on the back of his eyelids, regardless. And, he moves just that little bit quicker knowing that you might be downstairs right now.

“Have you had something to eat?” Yoongi asks, pulling him down the stairs. “You’re going to need your energy.”

He shakes his head. “I have thankfully, you?”

Yoongi hums his response as he rushes down the stairs. “I’m fine for now, I don’t think we’ll get much time to replenish ourselves so make sure you’re okay and look after yourself. I suspect patients are beginning to roll in downstairs.”

Taehyung nods, following behind Yoongi. “Let’s go.”

They both rush without speaking to each other. Which was easier for Yoongi, his mind was in a dizzying state of panic, he could barely think straight.  He was worried for you, knowing how heroic you try to be sometimes. He was worried for the patients, the ones you’ll no doubt be flooding his department and he was worried the most for Jimin, who had called him briefly in the back of an ambulance.

His phone had cut off mid sentence.

Yoongi’s heart had dropped and he was left screaming into the phone for a response and Sana, Taehyung’s Emergency Nurse nearby, had heard the broken sounds he made while she had packed her dressing table with bandages and saline. It was a moment of weakness for Yoongi, one he wasn't prepared to show anybody.

One that Sana had a front row seat in.

Everybody loses someone and something during these types of ordeals but you’re all in this together, no one will be left alone.

Taehyung begins to run, faster than he’s ever run before. He pants wildly next to Yoongi as they fly down staircases together, pushing through the ground floor white stairwell doors. It’s a sinking feeling of panic and responsibility, one that feels like tar at the bottom of his stomach.  

Yoongi shoves his ID against the wall, they wait until the light turns green before barging through the staff only doors and down the glass walled corridor towards the Emergency Room.

They don’t speak.

They don’t even look at each other.

The pair run again panic running through their blood as it intoxicates and fuels their wildest imaginations. Scenarios flash through his mind, all full of death. He sees it, no matter how hard he tries not to, beneath the starlight, your body charred from fire, broken on impact-

-he clenches his eyes closed tightly, not wanting to think of it, not believing that could ever be  the case. It was impossible, things like that don’t happen in real life.

Not to him.

There were so many things he hadn’t said.

So many things he wanted to explain.  

But the unmistakable sound of an explosion tears through the night sky, and his blood runs cold sparked by the realisation that he might not get the opportunity to tell you them because things that shouldn’t happen in Seoul, are happening.

And fuck, was that a big explosion.

They come to a halt outside the windows as the unmistakable orange light in the distance boils up from the forest.

Another loud sound of the blast follows.

A shiver runs down Taehyung's body.

They stop where they are to look at each other. Eyes full of terror, unspoken panic and worry, both unsure of what to do next. Yoongi is trembling as he looks down at his phone, was Jimin safe? Please be safe.

“Yoongi?” Taehyung says watching his bottom lip quiver as Yoongi looks up at him, sad eyes glistening underneath the bright light. Have they both just lost someone they loved? because at this point in time as the city is pulled apart by fire and smoke, anything was possible.

“Are you okay Yoongi?”

“I’m fine. We’ll be fine. It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay,” Yoongi gulps, trying to convince himself, more-or-less him. Taehyung watches him take off his thin black tie before dumping it into his coat pocket. “I don’t ...I can’t talk about whatever the hell is going on right now. Let’s just follow protocol and try to survive the next 24 hours without hurting someone or worse, ourselves.”

Taehyung says nothing in return. Somehow he’s not so convinced that this will roll over smoothly and resolve within 24 hours, let alone the next 2 hours when patients start crashing into ED.

And he was right.

Everything had happened far too quickly for any ritualized plan to accommodate when the first wave of casualties poured into the emergency department lobby. Oxygen dependent patients were transported first, sent straight to the high dependency unit, rushed down hallways and straight into the General Med ward.

Intubated patients with severe wounds compatible with life were thrown straight into ICU. Orthopaedic patients with broken hips were sent straight up to Taehyung’s ward. It was an organised mess, an artform in itself until the very second it wasn’t.

Because the second wave came in with wounds related to the explosion.

And everything turned to shit.  

All they had to go by now as the ER flooded with injured people, were coloured ribbons triaging people on who were likely to live the most from the injuries they sustained and who clearly, would not.

Across the hall, a nurse screams desperately out for help. “Dr. Taehyung, we need you over here. Vitals are crashing, we need orders!”

And so, he begins to run.

Taehyung has worked long enough in this industry to realise that life is a series of choices. Left or right? Up or down? Should you do this or should you do that? Should I give up happiness for the health of another? Should I stay or should I go?

Life is a series of choices strung together or pulled apart by either good or bad intentions, but for a doctor it’s much more abstruse. Their lives are about making the choices that affect the life and death of others. And, no matter how hard he tries to be omniscient and resilient in emergencies like this, he is still human. And no amount of normalizing the trauma he’s looking at right now, will ever make it not traumatic.

Because for the first time in a long time, Kim Taehyung is so fucking scared and nervous that he doesn’t know what to do.

“Dr. Taehyung!”

“H-he’s unresponsive,” he wipes the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead with the back of his hand. “What's his BP?” he exhales, watching Mena connect another bag of fluids to the patient.  

The nurses rush around him.

“BPs 90/50. Heart rates 110, resps are 26,” she says, pointing down the patient’s body, “Chest has abnormal movement, he looks like a thoracic case.”

Taehyung can’t think straight for multiple reasons but he perseveres, even when he hears the scream from the same nurse earlier rattling his brain. “Dr. Taehyung we need you over here! Please! For God sake, we need your help!”

“Shit,” He nods at her, biting his bottom lip before letting it go. “Grab Dr. Han, he’s the doctor in your team right? because this is definitely a thoracic case and I need to attend to that orthopaedic emergency. Monitor him every 5 minutes, oxygen, pain relief and antibiotics please.”

Mena nods, running over to the nearest thoracic surgeon, Dr. Han. They both rush back over, Dr. Han pats Taehyung’s back. “Where's your team?” he asks and Taehyung shakes his head.

“Sana is suturing. Em’s in redzone. The others are with a hip fracture.”

Dr. Han smirks, “Well, stick to your team Taehyung. I can’t have you in my space all the damn time, I already get too much of it at Mina’s.”

“Convince her to divorce me then. And, I would stick to my own team, if you even tried to stick to yours,” There's a bitter taste swelling in his mouth as he looks at the surgeon in front of him. He was such a fucking jerk. “Look after your team so I don’t have to.”

Rolling his eyes, Taehyung walks away and down the hallway towards the red zone, where he should’ve been earlier and where he’s being called to now.

“Over here Tae!”

“I’m coming!” he shouts back, now running towards the agressively loud cardiac monitors as they alert to deterioration in status. “What's the issue-

“He’s arresting!” Nurse Em  shouts, immediately jumping on his bed and initiating chest compressions. “Starting CPR.”

Rolling up his sleeves, Taehyung kicks the CPR break at the bottom of the bed, pulling the bed out from the wall while delegating advanced cardiac support roles to each member of staff. “Adrenaline, 10 ml IV go. I’ll intubate, defib now please!”

Taehyung runs to the head of the bed, looking at the empty basket hanging off the wall by the oxygen as everyone rushes around him.

“Fuck,” he shouts, prompting the interest of one of his students, who had been following him. “Younggi, I need an endotracheal tube and a laryngoscope.”

She nods, running as fast as she can to the storage room. Arriving less than a minute later with the intubation equipment box. He smiles at her, as she puts the box on the bedside dresser. “Watch closely because you’ll be doing this for the next one, I am tilting the head back to extend the atlanto-occipital joint. This will align the axes of the mouth, pharynx and trachea.”

The bed dips as a nurse continues chest compressions.

“Alright,” She passes laryngoscope to his gloved hands but he shakes his head, lifting his hand as in to stop. “Suction, please.”

Reaching over to the wall, she turns the unit on, handing him the long suction catheter. “Patients can vomit during resuscitation,” Taehyung sweeps it into his mouth, sucking up vomit before giving it back to Younggi. “Be mindful of that.”

He grabs the laryngoscope, inserting the tip of it into the right side of his mouth before fixing it straight into the vallecula. “And it goes right between the base of his tongue and the epiglottis.”

Taehyung looks down into his mouth, elevating the mandible and visualising the cords. Was it in the right place? Opening his other hand to her, he says without looking at her. “Endotracheal tube, please.”

She passes it to him, slapping it in his open palm.

Taehyung inserts the tube down his throat, and to the right side of the oropharynx before pushing the cuff past his vocal cords. The staff around him, prepare the patient for defibrillation.

Removing the laryngoscope, he hands it back to Younggi. Taemin, another student, hands Taehyung the paddles of the defibrillator while nodding to everyone in the team. The nurse gets off the patient's bed, panting from the CPR she just did.

“Administering shock, everyone get back!” Taehyung shouts, prompting everyone to stand back from the bed. Putting the paddles onto his chest, he shouts out louder. “Shoot!”

They all look back to the cardiac monitor for a change in rhythm before Taehyung leans forward to shock the patient again, and again until his rhythm comes back. Taehyung doesn't know how he does it, he blacks out every time he needs to do CPR but here he is, clear minded. The time calls for it, he assumes.

“He’s back in rhythm doctor, blood pressure is increasing ...he’s responding!” Taemin shouts out happily.

Taehyung sags in relief when he does. “Stabilize him please, monitor vitals, insert an indwelling catheter and take him upstairs to the cath lab stat.”  

The students nod as do the other staff. “On it.”

Medical emergencies can happen at anytime and with little to no warning in the hospital but it’s the perfect place to have one. Taehyung hasn’t had many hands on experiences with cardiac arrests being in orthopaedics but he’s always loved the thrill of matters pertaining to the heart.

“Taehyung! I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU EVERYWHERE YOU BIG IDIOT! I’m really confused and I need you!” Sana shouts, pulling him to her bedside. “This patient came in without assistance, I literally know nothing about him. I think he might be one of the first patients from the second wave and I don't know what to do.”

“He’s unresponsive too?” he wipes the sweat dripping down his forehead with the back of his hand as he reaches over to look into his pupils. How many more pupils will he look at tonight? “What are his vitals looking like? ” he exhales, watching Sana connect another bag of fluids to the patient.

“Not too good at all doc. His haemoglobin is low, I questioned whether we should give him blood but then again ...I don't really know,” she says. Nodding, he grabs his stethoscope, looking over the patient. “You weren’t told anything about his history or anything but where’s he bleeding from then?” he says, looking at the blood seeping into the sheets.

“Here,” ripping open his shirt, bandages cover a hole in his chest. “His chest. I don’t think it’s an arterial bleed but I have a feeling it went straight through an organ.”

“Shit, why didn’t you tell me that first?” He laments, biting his bottom lip before letting it go.

Sana announces beside him as he turns up the volume on the cardiac monitor. “He’s dying, I’m putting a red ribbon on his bed.”  

“Good idea,” Taehyung says, holding his stethoscope over the patient's heart. “Jugular vein distention due to impaired venous return to the heart and I hear muffled heart sounds probably due to fluid buildup inside the pericardium.”

Shit.

Fuck.

Looking at the monitor, he shouts out for a surgical trauma team. “Dr. Yoongi, we have a surgical emergency over here.”

“What?” Yoongi runs over immediately, perspiration dripping down his face. “What is it Tae?”

“It’s pericardial tamponade,” he nods, wrapping his stethoscope around his neck again. “Build up of blood in the pericardium, he’s got all the signs. No other notes on him. We came in knowing nothing.”

“Fucking hell,” he snaps, waving his hand, a trauma team run over, immediately taking the patient out of the yellow zone and straight into theatre. “We’ve got it from here.”

Taehyung and Sana stand side-by-side watching them rush the patient away. It was as if the entire thing happened in less than 5 seconds. “Thanks for that Taehyung. I nearly cried when Dr. Minho left me alone, never leave me like that, you asshole.”

“Stop running away then, you’re my nursing person, how can I possibly save people without you,” Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Plus, he probably got pulled into theatre so don’t be rude.”

“Communication is key,” she rolls her eyes. “Don’t excuse abandoning your team.”

“You’re right, communication is key. I’ll have a word with him when I see him.”

He closes the cubicle curtains as he leaves. It’s hot, Taehyung feels like a roast potato and he’s sweating, really badly sweating through his scrubs and he feels disgusting. He’s about to head into Yoongi’s office to steal his other coat but the shrivelled sound of his name being shouted across the floor, stops him.  

“Dr. Taehyung, we need you!”

He groans, pouting as he reluctantly rushes over to the cubical. “What’s the problem now?” Looking at the patient, he swings straight into action.

Tears were beginning to sting his eyes as he moved from patient to patient. As he sutured, as he assessed as he touched abdomens and legs, assessed fractures and looked at x-rays. He was a machine, running on adrenaline and pure concern for your safety.

Where were you?

Why weren’t you here?

Were you hurt?

Are you alive?

And it all happens too quickly to process how one can simply walk back into ones life as if nothing had even happened at all.  It all happens so quickly that Taehyung is caught completely off guard, shocked at your sudden arrival back into his life. He’s struck by the memories as they flood into his pounding heart and every corner of his brain, and for a long moment of time, he forgets where he even is. 

But for you? the experience is vastly different. The wounds you sustained in your heart have scabbed over into a hard wall protecting you from peoples bullshit, you aren’t the same soft bitch you were back then. Taehyung lied to you and your brain had processed the dishonesty as a painful reminder that you were not worth the truth to him. It was an ugly thought that festered into your soul, gnawed it’s teeth into your memories and killed the sunflowers blooming in your heart.

But who really needs sunflowers anyway when you’ve already got the sun.

Lifting your bottom off the patients lap, you put all your weight onto your knees as you continue chest compressions while they pull you out of the back of the ambulance. Jungkook moves out of the way, holding his broken arm as Seokjin and a pair of medical students push the stretcher out of the bay and through the automatic emergency department doors.

It’s tense.

Every inch they move you, the buzzing in your ear gets painfully louder. As a result, your counting out loudly, practically shouting to your team as Jimin runs beside the stretcher. “14, 15, 16….” 

“To the right!” a student says, enabling Jin to push you down the right white hallways. “How many people will we need for this?” he asks.

“As many as you want,” you shout, sweat dripping down your face. “Anyone who will help, I feel faint so let’s do this quickly please.”

“We’re almost there,” he reassures you, pushing you a little quicker on the stretcher. Patients with green ribbons wrapped around their arms, sitting on each side of the hallway, look up, moving out of the way for you, whispering among themselves.

People hold up phones, filming your ascent into the hospital.

Others simply gasp, following your every movement.

You are not surprised.

Nurses look startled as you pass and you can’t blame them. Your face is covered in soot and blood, and you’re doing CPR on a man with an entourage of 9 in your wake. The lights get brighter as you reach the hub of the Emergency Department but you have no time to look at the scenery because he’s still coding and as the minutes go by and no other doctor approaches, so does his chances of survival.

You look around the room for anyone running to your aid, no one does, so you scream. “I NEED HELP OVER HERE!”

Taehyung looks up to the sound of your voice, panicked and strained as he trips over a dressing table while staring at you. It’s contents spill across the floor but he can’t keep his eyes off of you enough to care.

You’re alive and it’s so like you to make an incredibly dramatic entrance.            

“Taehyung,” Sana waves her hand in front of his face as she helps him up. “Are you on crack or something, why are you so out of it?”

“Where do we go?” you shout.  Doctors look up from their clipboards, nurses begin their hustle to run towards you.  The entire department watches you, patients suddenly transfixed by your entrance. “We need a bed!” you shout impossibly louder, a small brunette runs over, pointing to an empty cubicle.

Yoongi runs out from his office. “Over there, go, we have doctors waiting to assist. Are you hurt?” 

You don’t answer.

Sweat drips through the dirt on your face.  

“She is,” Jungkook offers from behind you. “We were too close for comfort back there, all of us have some kind of injury.”

Yoongi immediately looks over Jimin. “Thanks for letting me know, you should go and get treated Jungkook. Anyone with fucking eyes knows your dumbass did something noble again and got your arm broken. 

“What?” Jungkook says, you can feel an argument about to perspire between the two again. “What did you just say?”

“Knowing you, I know you did something so piss off and get your arm treated.”

“No, I’m going to help Y/N, she needs help-

“GUYS, THERE'S MORE PRESSING ISSUES RIGHT NOW! YOU CAN MAKE OUT LATER. GET ME IN THE CUBICAL.”

Seokjin pushes you towards the empty cubicle and sweaty strands of hair fall in front of your face as you focus on compressions. The bed halts against the wall, people buzz around you, quick to provide advanced cardiac support.

“What happened?” a young doctor asks, and Jimin speaks up, relaying off everything he knew as the bedside rails are taken down. Sana connects Jimin’s ambu bag with oxygen, before pulling the resus trolley to the end of the bed.

Taehyung stands beside you, in shock as he looks over your appearance. There's a fresh patch of blood on the back of your coat, your hair is in a tangled floppy mess as loose strands covered your face and your scrubs couldn’t possibly get any dirtier. He’s wide eyed as an unspoken terror rips through him. Were you stuck in the hospital?

“Where’s the defib, we need to shock him now!” you shout, looking in every direction but at Taehyung, having not noticed he was even there.  

His hands shake at his side as he watches everything play out as though he wasn’t even in the room. Your white coat is covered in blood and all of you look like a mess. What happened?

“Are you going to help?” Sana asks him, drawing up amiodarone and adrenaline beside him. He falters as she hangs up a bag of glucose and saline on the hook of the trolley, leaving the medication on the trolley. “Taehyung?” 

He stands there, unable to move as the shock of seeing you rolls over him like wave full of razor blades. “Y/N…” 

“What are you even saying? God, get your head in the game,” she stammers, rushing beside you to set up the defib pads on the patient. “Setting up the pads now, keep compressing doctor. The machine is going to analyse his heart rhythm.”

“Get down from there Y/N,” Yoongi instructs, voice quivering as he shoves Taehyung into the curtain. “Aja, get on compressions after shock delivery. Administrate the adrenaline Sana,” looking at Jimin at the foot of the bed, Yoongi smiles thankfully. “Baby, I’m glad your safe and all but stay at the head of the bed on those resps and you watch me.”

They all follow his orders quickly. 

Jimin nods at him. His eyes are glistening with tears as he stares at the two people who matter the most to him, both okay. “Sorry to worry you Yoongi, it was a close one back there.”  

Standing in front of Jimin, despite everything, Yoongi leans forward to kiss his forehead. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” 

Jimin smiles at him. “Me too.”

“I’m getting down now. That’s my daily exercise done,” you shout, lifting your hands off the patient and clambering off the bed. Whoever put the bedrails down, didn’t click it correctly into place so as you go to get off, your foot gets stuck in between the bars, causing you’re unstable descent to the floor. “Woah- 

Taehyung moves forward quick enough to catch you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you sag against his chest. It was the only thing he had been able to do since you arrived, let alone act like a normal person and think like a doctor. The feeling is so familiar to him that he wants to bathe in it, it’s so familiar it hurts.

You feel his pounding heart against your back and then, you ignore him, thinking it to be Irene as you stand up straight. “God, I nearly broke myself. Thank you for that.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything as he lets you go and stands back.

You don’t recognise him?

“Right, Yoongi, he has no allergies that we know of,” Leaning forward, you rip open the rest of the patients shirt. Jungkook stays at the foot of the bed. “His medical history is a bit complex….”

Yoongi stands beside you listening to Jungkook and Taehyung falls to the side of the curtain to watch. Grabbing the defib, you hold the paddles to the patients chest. “Everyone stand clear. Shoot!” you shock.

You all look back at the rhythm on the monitor.  

No result.  

The machine continues to analyse his heart rhythm as Aja jumps onto the bed on his knees to do chest compressions. The machine advises a secondary shock. You turn to the defib and turn up the voltage, holding the paddles, you shout. “Everyone move. Administering shock.”

 They all move again.  

 You shock him

Chest compressions start again.

Your vision goes hazy.

And then your knees buck.

Yoongi catches you as you fall to his side. 

You try to stand up again but your guts suddenly churn with lungs full of acid and a mouth full of saliva. Everything around you is moving too quickly with no narrative and the floor feels like it’s tilting. “I think I’m going to throw up, Yoongi can you please continue, I need to have a moment.”

Yoongi nods, grabbing the paddles. “I’m giving you more than a moment, I’ll have my team take over. Go and get treated, you too Irene and Jimin. Get out of my sight.” 

“I’ll stay,” Irene says, looking between you all. “I’m not hurt and I want to ...no, I need to see this through. He has to be okay after everything we’ve gone through tonight.” 

Yoongi nods. “Fine, but go get some rest after this. Go draw up some more adrenaline.” She smiles widely, nodding her head as she runs back to the foot of the bed.

As you walk away with Jimin, Dr. Xiumin wraps his arm around your waist, suddenly steering you towards the ambulance bay. There’s an urgency in his voice that feels like you two are being defibrillated because you throw thoughts of rest away in favour of the trembling favour on the tip of his tongue.

“I need your help,” he says, handing you a cool bottle of water. “Both of your help.”  

“With what?” You and Jimin look over at each other in confusion. “Sure…”

There were many secrets kept at Forest Lakes, that you knew well but what you didn’t know about was the nature of the explosions and that the secret Dr. Xiumin harboured could get you all killed.

“Patients a 64 year old male, hemodynamically unstable with orthopaedic deformity,” Dr. Xiumin announces, pushing the stretcher towards a discrete room in the short stay unit, adjacent to ED. He turns to you, once the bed has been pushed up against the wall. His eyes are serious, hands shaking by his side. “He’s also the congressman and we need utmost discretion with his care.”

You still your body, eyes rushing over to the face you recognise faintly from your past, back then, he was the senator. “The congressman you say?”

He nods.

Stepping close to you, he whispers into your ear. “He was being treated in the VIP ward with other members of congress, Dr. Hoff suspected something wasn’t right ...could barely get a pint of blood in before his vitals crashed and we had to resuscitate him.”

“After we stabilised him, Dr. Hoff had this crazy suspicion that something wasn’t right, people were behaving weirdly, people we had never seen before so he asked that I sedate him and discreetly take him down to ED short stay for further treatment. By the time I got there, I had wheeled him into a chaotic department on Code Black, I haven’t seen Dr. Hoff since.”

The atmosphere is rendered silent by this.

Shooting a concerned sidelong glance to Jimin who had followed you in, you watch him bow his head while clenching his eyes closed. He bites down on his bottom lip to stop the tears from forming in his eyes. Jimin and Dr. Hoff had been close; a relationship akin to father and son.

“You haven’t seen him since you left the ward?” Jimin asks. His voice is muffled and you hear a squall of tears tangled in his throat and when adds, “Do you think he made it out alive?”

Silence.

You look back at the patient.

Dr. Xiumin looks at you. “I don’t need to answer that, you already know Jimin.”

And maybe he does but maybe now’s not the time to believe it.

Holding up the patient's file, Dr. Xiumin paces the room explaining his condition. It becomes clear that he needs more input from specialised doctors. “John Doe is a 64 year old male. Admitted to Forest Lakes today at 19:39 following an apparent car crash on the way to the Blue House. The mechanism of injury is unknown, injuries sustained range from an open fracture of the left radius and closed fracture of the left ulnar, bilateral lung contusion and I think it’s worth exploring whether he has an intracranial bleed.”

Writing on your clipboard, you nod. “Medical history?”

“Has a known history of drug and alcohol abuse, diabetes mellitus type 2 controlled well by oral hypoglycemics, smokes a pack of cigarettes a day. He’s got hypertension too.”

Writing your notes, Jimin takes his vital signs, checking them religiously for a change in status. “Y/N, he’s breathing rapidly, his resps are in the thirties and his oxygen saturations are shot, 78%. I’m putting him on high flow oxygen 15L/min.”

“Please,” you say, doing a head to toe examination of the patient. “Dr. Xiumin, he has unequal chest rise bilaterally with paradoxical movement of the chest wall.”

Walking around the side of his bed, you hold up the white sheet maintaining his dignity as you look at his body. “Upper chest abrasions but from the look of them, no open wounds.”

Rolling the patient on the side with you, Dr. Xiumin smiles. “No posterior injury, thank goodness.”

“Yes but he has reduced air entry and he looks like shit.” you snort, putting the blanket back on the patient. “He has no active bleeding elsewhere from what I see.”

Taking out your pupil torch, you open his eye lids with your finger tips, shining your torch to check for equal reflection of light in his pupils. “His glascow coma scale is pretty shitty but his pupils are good, I’ll still order a CT scan of his brain though, just to be sure.”

He nods. “Good idea.”

“Jimin, can you please hook him up to a litre of IV fluids, just NS 0.9% for now, let’s see if we can lift his blood pressure. I feel uncomfortable with how low it is.” you say, clicking your pen and putting it back into your pocket.

“I’m so glad I found you guys when I did,” Dr. Xiumin says, shifting on his feet beside you. “So, what can I do?”

“Get a pelvic, radius and ulna x-ray, a CT brain and lateral C-spine please. If you’re concerned with the results find the orthopaedic on reg and get him on board, we’ll definitely need his help.”

“I’ll get a portable one,” He smiles at you. “I’ll do that now.”

“Jimin, where's Irene? I need her on this too.” you ask and he turns to you while connecting the bag of fluids to the patient's cannula, making sure not to trip over the line as he walks over to you.

“She’s with our MVA cardiac arrest patient,” he stammers, ripping off his gloves and throwing them in the bin. “He’s been defibbed 10 times now, I think she’s waiting for him to go up to the hospitals lab for catheterisation.”

“Well,” you sigh, opening the door. “She needs to be here, I’ll go grab her. For now, give him some IV morphine and the antibiotics written on his drug chart. Monitor his condition every 5 minutes and I’ll grab Irene to draw some bloods. We need coags, blood chemistry and haemoglobin levels.”  

“I can just do that for us?” Jimin nods, rushing straight into action. “I’ll be quick.”

“Yes, please. Let me know when you get the results.”

“Will do.”  He says, pouting up at you as he pulls out the medication. “Go get Irene though, Forest Lakes staff need to stick together, we’re in enemy's territory right now and all this white is making me uncomfortable.”

Closing the door behind you, you sag against it, taking a deep breath. The weight of responsibility never felt so heavy and your entire body felt like jelly. You knees were trembling and at this rate, if someone were to hand you a scalpel, you’d be the one being cut open, you shook, everywhere.

Walking across the floor, your patient’s stretcher is quickly rushed past you. “LETS GO TEAM!” Doctors run beside him. Their white coats look like clouds in comparison to the raggedy one you’re about to throw out. Faces are covered with white surgical masks as their feet push the patient towards surgery.

You felt like a storm drain with everything continuously pouring in since the explosion, seemingly never stopping. You close your eyes for a second but the bright light still hits the back of your eyelids, making patterns of spangled chaotic colours of red, blue and white dance inside your skull.

It was disorienting, completely and insanely dizzying.

Being a doctor, you were aware of these symptoms. You need to stop and take a break, you’ve just experienced a massive trauma. The anxiety you are feeling is normal, you’d expect it following such an event. You rub over your heart, feeling palpitations ripple through your chest and the telltale signs of an anxiety attack as it forces your eyes back open. You don’t get a good look at the doctors pushing him away because everything looks like you're mixing pink paint with water.

“RUSH HIM BEFORE HE CRASHES, WE NEED AN EKG STAT!” A doctor you don’t know screams. “RUSH HIM TO CARDIO, WE’RE PUTTING HIM UNDER-

The doors close behind them.

His screams turn into muffled hopes of recovery as they get further and further away.  

It is as though time stops for you, when Irene runs towards you, ponytail swishing behind her. Concern is drawn across her face as she rubs your shoulders, and somehow the simple action grounds you. She stares at you with big bright eyes.

You feel relieved.

Smiling at you, she says. “Hey, we brought him back, Dr. Taehyung went against his superiors orders and continued CPR, he didn’t die, we bought him back.”

“Wait, excuse me what did you just say? Who?” Your heart spikes as you look up in alarm. “Dr. Taehyung’s here?”

“He was, he went with the patient to the cath lab,” She smiles innocently, patting the dirt off her white nursing scrubs. “He was the good looking doctor who caught you when you fell getting off the patient. You lucky duck! Living my dream!” She smacks your arm playfully but the feeling of friendly banter doesn’t register as ice grows in your blood.

“Kim Taehyung?”

Blinking at you, she asks. “Why? Do you know him?”

You laugh nervously before shaking your head. “No, not anymore. He was someone I went to school with.”

“Oh.” She frowns, knowing not to press on the piece of personal information you’ve just offered. Irene hasn’t worked with you closely before this but everyone in the department knows about your personality and how closed off you are to your past.

It’s what made you a mystery but Irene knows better than that, you were a strong woman, dominating your field of medicine in a male dominated profession.  

Diluting your art with matters of the heart, would be down right stupid and it would prove all the bearded smirking consultants right. You were a professional who moved like the wind when the need rose with enough force to become a hurricane. Irene respected that.

You still think about it sometimes.

What happened.

You were young back then, you sincerely believed everything you did was disposable, temporary; never meant to stay. Taehyung was different but you drove your own speeding car away from that one, leaving him and memories of him far behind. It hurt and you didn’t want hurt anymore, not when you had the ability to take the pain away.

Somehow you had thought meeting him again would be more dramatic and your heart would be able to point him out in a crowd in an instant. You snort before laughing loudly at the now growing fact that you hadn’t even recognised him, to caught up with your patient.  

Go figure.

“I feel good.” you smile, and she shakes her shoulders cutely at you.

“Do you?”  

You nod. “I’m a good doctor.”

Laughing, she slaps her your shoulder playfully. “Of course you are, you’ve done well. You should seriously look after yourself though. Now that we’re kind of free, do you want to see if there are any doctors to patch us up?”

“Yeah, I was going to ask you that to,” you say, pointing at her cheek. “Your wound doesn’t look deep enough for stitches, maybe just some steri strips for now?”

“I was thinking the same,” looking down at her scrubs, she frowns. “Honestly Y/N, I’m going to kill you if this blood doesn’t come out of my uniform.”

You snort. “Is that what you care about right now?”

“Of course, looks matter too! How else am I supposed to find myself a husband in this hospital?”

Rolling your eyes, you flick her forehead hard. “With your personality and compassion and you don’t need a man!”

“Not yet.” she giggles.

Yoongi walks up to you two with a stern look on his face, immediately throwing his arms around you. He pulls you into his chest tight, tenderly holding you against his smelly sweaty shirt. “I’m so fucking happy to see you, come on, let’s get you treated.”

Pulling out of his embrace, he pulls you and Irene over towards the bed next to Jungkooks. He looks up at you, arm already dressed and hanging up in pillowcase hanging from an IV pole.

“Hey.” he whispers as you gently sit on the bed, embarrassment floods your body when Yoongi closes the curtain and you realise that he’ll have to dig shards of glass out of your ass.

“How you feeling?” you ask him, peeling your coat off and dropping it to the floor. “You good?”

Jungkook sighs, putting his other arm up behind his head. “They gave me pain relief and I definitely won’t be able to practice with my arm like this but that’s fine.”

He watches you gently move onto your side, grimacing at the pain shooting down your leg. “Where are you hurt?” Yoongi asks, sitting on a stool beside you. Irene sits on the stool in Jungkook’s cubicle as a junior doctor attends to her cheek. “There’s a lot of blood here…”

You sigh, gesturing for Jungkook to close the curtain between you. “I have shards of glass in my butt.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Well,” Jungkook laughs behind his curtain. “We all knew you had something up there.”

“Yah.” you shout at Jungkook, holding up your fist at him and Yoongi laughs loudly behind you.

“Hey, can you not encourage him?” You turn and slap Yoongi’s chest. “Shut up, and treat me.”

After her cheek is bandaged, Irene pops through the curtain, standing next to Yoongi as she helps to gently pull down your pants. It stings and you really wish you had done your laundry because the underwear you’re wearing is a $3 thong you bought 3 years ago and it’s ugly.

“Jesus fucking christ,” he whispers, looking at the shards embedded into your skin. “Irene, can you cannulate her and draw up some IV pain relief for her, this is going to be fucking painful.”

“No, don’t do that. Just pull them out,” You say, sinking into the blankets. “If you give me pain relief, I won’t be able to work.”

Yoongi sighs. “Fine, you’re the boss.”

“Jungkook,” you say and he pulls open the curtain as Yoongi begins his extraction. “Talk to me, distract me. Tell me what's going through your mind.”

He glances at you, pink dusting his cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispers, the sincerity in his voice silences your automatic retort. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Did she save your life Jungkookie?” Yoongi asks from behind you. You bite into the pillow as he pours antiseptic all over your butt.

Irene pops out to grab you a pair of new scrub pants.

“She saved my life Yoongi,” Jungkook says, eyes glistening intensely at you. You look away, unable to handle the intense sincerity on his face. “I got locked in the drug room ...and everyone had left me in there and when the first blast went off, I thought I was a dead man. I honestly and earnestly thought, I was going to die.”

Yoongi stays silent.

“I had grabbed a vial of medication, ready to end it all. I didn’t want to die in pain, you know? I had drawn it up and everything and was going to stab myself with it.”

You nod.

“I just kept thinking that if I died, no one would remember me as a good doctor and my family would be so upset about it. I rammed that door so many times but it wouldn’t budge. I had been bolted in.”

Pulling out the first shard of glass, you whimper into the blankets. “I’m so sorry Jungkook,” you whimper. “No one should’ve ever gone through what you did.”

“I screamed so much that it felt like my throat had been ripped raw Y/N, I thought I was going to truly die in there but when you opened the door, it was like taking a breath of air after being in water for too long. In those seconds of seeing you and that door opening, the most indescribable relief I have ever felt washed over me.”

You giggle. “I have that effect on people.” you wink, but it goes straight over him.

“I can’t thank you enough Y/N, I owe you my life,” you watch tears fall down his face. “I promise you that I’ll be different after this, I’ll be a good doctor and you’ll be proud of me.”

Yoongi pulls out the rest of the shards and you wince loudly, gripping onto the sheets. Jungkook wants to lean over and hold your hand through it but you’ve never been the type of girl to need someone else to support you and he has a broken arm, so he doesn’t.

Despite your aching need to be consoled.

Gritting your teeth as he dresses the wounds, Irene walks back through the curtains with a a pair of new pants, a new coat and a tetanus injection for you. “Look, Jungkook. Don’t tell me what you’re going to do, show me. I know you have it in you, just show me.”

“I will,” He nods. “I definitely will.”

Irene stands in front of you, injecting the vaccine into your arm. “Do you feel like this was supposed to happen?” she asks. “I’ve been thinking about it since we got here, but doesn’t it feel like we were supposed to come here?”

Yoongi’s pager goes off as he slaps your butt, you wince, shooting him an aggressive facial expression. Looking down, he clicks through the little black box before checking his phone.

He sighs immediately. “More incoming casualties, they’re closing down the Children's Hospital and all pediatric patients are being sent here. Great, just fucking great.”

Sitting up, you tie your hair back up, pulling all the strands out from your face. “Do we have any paediatric doctors on standby?”

He nods. “We do and we have you too.”

“Lets go, the others probably need help.” you sigh, jumping off the bed to put the fresh new pair of pants on and grabbing a fresh white Seoul Hearts coat from Irene's hands. You pick up your mangled stethoscope from your own coat on the floor before chucking it into the bin.

“Hey,” Yoongi stops you from following him. “Wash your fucking face girl, you look like you’ve been rolling around in dirt.”

“You swear too much Yoongi,” Rolling your eyes, you push his smirking face away. “I do not miss your potty mouth.”

He smiles sincerely at you. “I’m sure that’s not true. I’ll see you in the hub when you’re done, best to get some food in you.”

You salute him before walking towards the staff bathroom. Pushing through its white gender neutral labelled doors, the cold air conditioning hits your face as you walk towards the sink. You don’t look into the mirror yet, in fear of what you might see. So, you sag against the counter, turn the tap on and shove your hands underneath the stream.

You aren’t sure if it’s the relief from the water that you feel rush through you or the systemic relief from being alive. Who knows?

Leaning forward, you scrub your face with the warm water and a dollop of hand wash from the dispenser in front of you. You watch colours of black, brown and red go down the drain as you scrub behind your ears.

It hurts, your body hurts, you feel anxious, your joints feel stiff and your ass is burning and you’re kind of terrified for the next 48 hours but at least you were alive, and unlike any other situation, feeling the aforementioned was a truly good sign.

It’s true what they say about trauma being undeniably agonizing but as you as finally look up and stare at your now clean face, save for the scratches and superficial wounds on your arms, you realise the beauty of it all.

You’re safe.

Turning the tap off, you pull down the sleeves of your coat. You stare at your reflection one last time before pushing off the counter and heading out the bathroom. The next hours are uncertain, anything could happen, especially with Taehyung but there is one thing you are certain about. You are profoundly aware of the extraordinary value of life, happiness and love now that you have faced the possibility of loss.

You wonder how that might come into play when this is all over. Will you still be the same? Or will you realise your own life, happiness and love are important? And that no matter how many times you scrunch up the past like a piece of paper and throw it into the nearest bin, people who are meant to be in your life will always come back and be in your life.

The bathroom door closes behind you as you walk towards the hub of the Emergency Department.

Taehyung stands a couple feet away, throwing his surgical mask and apron into the bin.

You stop, faltering at the sight of him as chaos erupts around you both. He looks up, hands twitching at his side. It’s like time has paused when you both stare at each other for the first time in a long time.

And Taehyung smiles softly at your now clean appearance. “Y/N,” he says, beginning to walk across the room to you. You watch him as he makes four long strides towards you, closing the gap between you two. “It’s been a long time.”

Your heart begins to pound in what you hoped to be muscle memory as you stare blankly at the man. Your lips move and your brain blunders, 

“T-taehyung.”

A/N: If I made you feel things, tell me here

[clarke-griffin-did-nothing-wrong]

Netflix’s Death Note

About to beat this dead horse till it explodes.

First things first, so you know what you’re getting into: I loathed this movie. My very soul burned while watching it. It zipped past The Lightning Thief and The Last Airbender in terms of bad and now rests solely at the bottom with Riverdale. 

Next, I’ll start with what I liked about the movie. 

Ryuk’s design was phenomenal. I could understand why Light wanted to piss himself after seeing him. Top notch work.

Also, the first scene where Little Bit-- I mean, Light Turner tried to threaten a bully by claiming child abuse and gets punched in the face. Kenny was a dick but that made him my favorite character.

I’m going to judge the movie objectively though I will throw in references to the anime just as an example of how a thing could have been handled better.

The characters were all terrible. I don’ t care about the casting, that’s no excuse for how unlikeable I found everyone. Light was whiny and so SO annoying. He was also so SO stupid. He didn’t just leave breadcrumbs right to his doorstep, he left entire loaves! Mia was an obvious sociopath. I don’t think I was supposed to like her so that’s fine; just putting it out there. Also, can we agree how weird it was that they literally got off on using the notebook. Death Note and chill should not be a thing. 

L was... different. I wanted to like him but I didn’t understand how he was supposed to be the world’s greatest detective. He was an emotional wreck. He felt more like if Near was merged with Mello, smart, yes, but to on edge to be of any professional use. Watari had no real presence. He felt like a prop that was just lying around waiting for his cue with Light. I really did not buy L’ s breakdown over him. They didn’t feel as close as the movie wanted me to think they were. 

The movie had zero interest in keeping its rules consistent. I pretty much have all the anime rules memorized but I decided that the movie could make up its own, I didn't care. They did, but they failed to enforce them properly.

For example, it’s clear that when a name is written in the note, the person dies, no ifs, buts or what ifs. Light himself goes through great pains to avoid writing his own name when describing an action using words like “her boyfriend” and “the Kira suspect”. Fine. But then it pulls conditional deaths out of its butthole and just plops it in the finale. No one said anything about that being possible, how are you going to hinge your entire finale on new rules?

We also have the note’s ability to control people being really arbitrary. Light wrote that Watari would be obsessed with finding out L’s true name and tell Light everything he knew, but this somehow translates into Light being able to dictate his every move down to telling him not to sleep. 

Ryuk’s motivations, abilities and connection to the note are also really weird. At first you get the sense that he’s just a crazy sonuvabitch that wants to watch the world burn but you’re never really told why. The movie establishes him as an ancient being that’s been lurking around since ancient Japan but has no interest in explaining why he’s in America or why he suddenly has the need to watch humans mess with each other. The anime establishes him as a god that’s just bored so he drops his book and hopes for something fun. The movie purports that he has been passing the book around for a while. It also tries to have me believe that he is an agent of chaos (at one point he chides Light for worrying about rules) but then he was the one that wrote the rules in the book (he clearly states this when Light tries to use the rules against him: “. It just seems easier, to me, to control someone into using the book how you want to if they only know what you tell them. Seems stupid to write out all the rules in the book and then get upset when they read them.Who do you think wrote the rules”)

The book also seems to affect him... allegedly. It's never stated outright but when Light threatens to write his name, Ryuk threatens right back that no one has been able to write more than two letters of his name suggesting that he killed them before they could finish. This is weird on two fronts: 

1: Ryuk’s name is already in the book. The only reason Light knew his name was because someone wrote a warning about him.

2: If Ryuk can kill the owner of the book, then why is it that he spent 90% of the movie trying to get Light to give the book to Mia?

And it isn’t clear if Ryuk can use the note himself! He wrote the rules himself, that is stated but he also said to Light that he would influence the next person to receive the note to write Light’s name. Why not do it himself?

It felt like Ryuk was just the genie to this oddly shaped lamp.

The ending was the worst part. It’s clever if you don’t think about it at all.

The idea was that Light thought up a clever plot in which he would escape his death that was plotted by Mia. This involves creating a conditional death for her as a bargaining chip so that she would only die IF she took the notebook. They would both fall and he would land safely in the water (physics disagrees but okay) and she would land on the shoreline. She would rip out the page that his name was written in out of the book while falling and this page would float into an open fire (physics still disagrees but okay). Light would be rescued by a paramedic that was also a criminal and the Death Note would be rescued by a pedophilic mailman and kept for two days before giving it back to Light and committing suicide.

It’s the first instance we see of Light being anything like the anime Light; cold, calculating and meticulously planning every detail so that he always survives and the Death Note is always returned to him. In fact, this might have been an origin story on how the whiny little teen became the god known as Kira.

But.

Analyzing his entire plan, it hinges on coincidences and rules that he probably just made up. Number one, he lucked out big time that there was a criminal paramedic in the police database and a mailman that would be around that area at that time to be in his plan. This whole thing wasn’t planned over the course of two days (the movie explains that the Death Note can control someone’s actions up to two days before the death) it was done in the span of about ten minutes maximum and had MAYBE half an hour to be carried out. The anime made time a huge factor with the note and so we were always on edge that Light’s plan would be carried out in time or what would happen if something happened too soon and he was caught and we were almost always in on the joke so we knew what would happen in how long. The movie has no presence of time and so we are just there to be strung along. In fact, Mia wrote that Light’s heart would stop at midnight but we have no idea when midnight is! Back to the plot, Light planned something based on new information in ten minutes and had thirty to have in come true, fine, whatever. L caught up with Light and chased him for a good while. It was a huge coincidence that he managed to get away and get to where he needed to go in the right amount of time. If he had done something smart then I’d give him points, but the only reason he managed to get away from L was because, a guy that just so happened to be a Kira follower, wandered out back. It wasn’t preordained, it was plot armor. Light wrote that all the shit would go down in Mia took the Death Note but what if their weak ass love story was real and she didn’t take the Note? would they just get caught by the police? Would they still fall? And Light’s name is still in the book and the conditions were carried out a few minutes after so would ha have died anyway? Finally, the movie never explained that the Note was able to control physics. He could control people and put them in the right place at the right time if possible (that’s what the anime handled much better too. It really hit home Light’s moral gray area because he couldn’t just find criminals lying around in a shed somewhere ready to be used, he had to kill innocent people to get what he wanted sometimes) but the fact that he wrote that the page with his name would fall into a fire and burn... for context, he was at the top of a Ferris Wheel in a park filled with people with a few open flames, on of which was near him. He didn’t say Mia fell with the page and it fell out of her hand into a fire, he said she rips it out and it fell from the top of the Ferris Wheel all the way down into a fire... and it works! With that kind of power, I fail to see why he hadn’t already won.

This movie was miserable from start to finish. One thing I will say is that it TRIED to make it on its own. It didn’t intentionally leave out explanations that only fans of the anime would get, it rebuilt the lore... somewhat and used that instead. Seriously, what is Ryuk’s purpose. We don’t even know if there are more death gods!)

You know, it really could have quenched half the hate against itself by being a sequel and not an adaptation. There were more Shinigami that could drop notebooks in America and there were more orphans at Whammy House to replace L. They could have just made it a sequel and, it would still be bad, but no one would be complaining that they butchered Light. 

This movie was bullshit and I have more problems, particularly with L but I’ll put it in another post.

[mindfulrunner]

#54: daring greatly: mississauga race report

the seed: rebellious child

I have a sassy, rebellious, high-energy toddler and I am still at heart a sassy, rebellious, high-strung child. I signed up for the Mississauga full as an act of rebellion. He was sick, and I was covered in snot and tired out of my gourd, but I did it anyway.

I thought: f*** it. I tempted fate.

Even though I have a rebellious streak, I fear and respect the marathon, and situations and circumstances I fear and respect tend to bring out the best in me. So that f*** it was also a tiny prayer: may I dig, dig, dig. May I get the most out of myself. Inspired by the openness of Shalane Flanagan and Gwen Jorgensen, I also put out my ambitious, challenging, yet within reach goal: to PB and break 3:07.

training: the limiting factor

Training this cycle went well overall, except for a major limiting factor: illness. Elliot picked up virus after virus at daycare, and I seemed to get every single one, except they lasted twice as long for me, and instead of taking off sick days to rest and take care of myself, I took them off to take care of him. Between January and May, I was sick with three upper respiratory tract infections (URTI) the flu (first time getting this in many years), and 3 GI viruses (at least one of the GI bugs was food poisoning, I think). In previous cycles, I got URTIs a couple of times that lingered, I assume because I chose to train through them, as long as I didn’t have a fever and my energy levels were OK. This year, the first of these infections struck just one week after seeing my naturopathic doctor at the end of January and telling her my immunity was great. Figures.

I was sick, or caring for Elliot, pretty much all of February, and I was intensely frustrated. At the same time, I was wrapping up a huge 5-month project at work that was overdue, and trying to maintain some fitness, mostly by running easy. Typically, I would feel OK after easy runs, but then the day after a harder effort like a long run or workout, I’d feel worse, and ease off again. On two occasions I took longer stretches off – 3 or 4 days— but had a hard time taking a full week off, which is what I probably should’ve done. My issue was I have zero faith in my immune system, and didn’t quite believe I’d get totally better with that amount of time off, since even when I’m not training colds and infections often last well over a week. In February, I averaged just 60k a week, ran only one proper long run of 28k, and 3 workouts total. In my last marathon cycle, I averaged 100+, hit all my long runs and workouts.

I raced the Chilly half sick at the beginning of March, another questionable life choice, and somehow ran a PB. It felt very hard from 6k on, which was early for me to push, and it was the first time in a long time I questioned my ability to complete a race. I coughed for a good five minutes straight at the end uncontrollably. In that moment, I really regretted what I had just done and had no joy in the PB, assuming I would get pneumonia or something, and screw over my work and family even more. Going into it, I wasn’t even sure I was going to race, but when I began to pick up the pace, I got competitive, wanted the PB, and somehow performed beyond my fitness and circumstances. Getting 100% out of myself on race day, despite only having 70-80% in my training, became my focus going into the marathon. I also figured if I could run 90 minutes on pretty bad training, the equivalent of a 3:09 marathon, I had a very good shot of PBing and, on a good day, maybe even running in the low 3s.

I got lucky and oddly enough actually felt better after racing Chilly. In March I averaged 94k per week, and in April I averaged 94k again. However, I only ran 7 weeks over 80k, and 6 of those were over 90k. In the last marathon cycle, I ran 12 weeks over 90k. So my overall build was not, for me, high-mileage. Workouts went OK. I ran marathon pace tempos between 4:21 and 4:25 pace. 4:21 felt too hard and 4:23 began to feel like the sweet spot. I had some craptacular long runs and workouts, and I noticed that these were occurring during the high-hormone, mid-luteal phase of my menstrual cycle. That started to psych me out, as the marathon fell on the same day. For more info, check this out:

pre-race: zero chill workin’ mom

The week before the marathon, a colleague abruptly went on vacation, which added an unexpected amount of stress to my workweek. Jeff was on days, which meant I was responsible for both pick-ups and drop-offs to daycare, which was also a little challenging, since Elliot seemed to be going through a period of separation anxiety again: he literally wouldn’t let go of my hand at daycare, and it broke my heart to pry his little fingers off one by one. Major mom guilt.

Taking over my colleague’s duties meant I was responsible for a project with a noon deadline the Monday after the race. F*** THAT, I thought. I worked my butt off to get it finished up as best as I could by Friday, putting in a 13-hour day, and dealing with Elliot, who was still not doing great: really fussy and clingy. I did not even have the time or presence of mind to properly track my carbs that day, although I think I got in around 500g.

After an awful night in terms of sleep, stress, and— OK I’ll admit it— a piss-poor attitude on Friday, I was super grumpy and lazed around all day Saturday. Jeff brought Elliot in to the walk-in and it turned out he had a nasty ear infection, poor dude, so I was concerned about him as well and cancelled the post-race party at our house.  We called in reinforcements, and my mom agreed to come in the morning to watch him, so Jeff could still come to the race.

It was only at 5pm that I properly started getting my head into the race. I realized all my gels and nutrition contained caffeine, so I zipped to the Runner’s Shop for some non-caffeinated ones and also picked up a sweet pair of Goodr sunglasses since I wasn’t totally sure where my normal running ones were. Then I returned home and got my bag and clothes ready with Elliot. Instead of being in bed by 9 as I should’ve, I made a pace cheat sheet with my goal 5, 10, 15, half, 25, and 30k times, as well as directions for the final really tricky with a bunch of twists and turns. I wrote out the directions moreso to ease my anxiety about the course, which I practiced running the previous week. I don’t think I fell asleep until late, maybe midnight, and was up at 4:40 to scarf down my oats.

execute: PB or bust

My goal was to PB. I didn’t care if I blew up. And I was a bit greedy. I wanted to run 3:03-3:04. I wanted to be well within striking distance of a fall sub-3. I wanted to prove this was my distance, this is where I shine. No plan B.

the race: hello glycogen depletion my old friend

Morning of, the temperatures were looking a bit warmer than expected, so I got a little nervous. And as with the Ottawa Marathon, I couldn’t properly go to the bathroom which was so weird. I wonder if carb loading messes up my digestion?

My teammate picked me up and we drove the short 30 minutes to the finish line to take the shuttle to the start. We missed our exit, and I ended up not really listening to my pre-race visualization and jams properly. At the start, I changed and immediately lined up for the bathroom and again tried to go but couldn’t. I very briefly warmed up, just 1k with a few strides, before searching for my teammates, Jake and Gar, who were going to run a similar pace. The plan was to start out at 4:23, but Gar was quicker after a few kms, so Jake and I let him go. Neither Jake or I felt great from the outset. We both had a shin issue that migrated into a hip issue, and I my calf started to cramp at 5k. However, I stayed calm, if not positive, knowing that marathons are long and these things can majorly shift. I especially tried to take the downhills in a controlled way to avoid slapping and aggravating my shin again.

As usual, the GPS watch just provided a guesstimate. This guesswork does tend to add some mystery and suspense into the effort, as I’m never totally sure if I’m hitting my goal, even if the numbers say I am, and I usually try a bit harder just in case. However, feeling that Gar was a very controlled pacer, and wondering why he’d gone ahead when he’d only wanted 3:05, I grew concerned we were running too slow. Between 8-14 k there were a few faster kilometres: 4:15, 4:17, etc. At 14k, I pulled out my sheet with the split times and some older women spectating chirped, “You don’t need a map, honey”, but the sheet told me that we were running well under our goal pace, that Gar was fast, and not to worry about him and just do our own thing. 

From that point on, Jake and I took turns leading until about 24-25k when I was officially slowing and starting to feel pretty crappy and let him go.

I don’t fully remember why I was slowing, if it was just overall discomfort or a negative mindset, or if my calf or hip were bothering me more. But I remember consciously letting him go, yet wanting to keep him in sight, and beginning to feel like the race was slipping from my control. I remember too, trying to quiet the needling thought: this is too early to feel so bad. I must’ve quieted most of my thoughts successfully, because I don’t really remember much about the next hour of the race. Maybe I lost focus? Or maybe I was incredibly focused on just hanging on. I don’t remember.

Something I struggled with that I could have controlled, maybe because I was distracted by what my teammates were doing and not running my own race, was fueling. I didn’t have a written plan, didn’t take the little baby bottles (literally baby bottles, ha ha!) of Maurten Jeff handed me, and didn’t take Gatorade at every station as I did at Ottawa. I think I took 4 gels total. I began to bonk around 34, 35k pretty hard. My watch was mostly in the low 4:30s, whereas I had wanted it in the low 4:20s. Around 35k, my heart rate also dropped according to Garmin? I’m still wondering if this was a fluke.

It was suit of armor hard, like in my first marathon. But I was reassured by the fact I was breathing pretty well, which to me signified it was still a manageable, if intense, effort. Not dead yet. I don’t think I took in any fuel after 37k, which again was silly, but I finally took one of the little bottles Jeff handed to me just prior to that. After 37, the effort to take Gatorade or a gel at that point seemed overwhelming. I need to learn to mentally prepare to work with this feeling and override it.

Luckily, during this period of bonking and serious effort, I did focus mentally, since I had women around me I was competing with. One woman in blue was wearing headphones and had very strong surges; we ran alongside each other for parts beginning at about 34k. We eventually caught up to a woman in black, who looked strong and was being paced by 2 male runners. I took their encouragement to her as my own “You’re doing great” and “Now’s the time to push if you have anything left” and we played cat and mouse a bit. I took the tangents straight, a bit aggressively, elbows a little out. 

Because the course was so twisty, I did not have the finish line in sight until the last 100m or so, although I could hear the crowds. Finally, with about 20m-50m to go, my competitor in black, who I later learned was named Karoline, had a huge kick but I somehow responded (despite apparently not using my arms at all!) and caught her at the line and came 4th woman by 1/10 of a second. My teammates were pleased I put on a funny show at the end. 

I had snuck under my PB of 3:07:36 by 50 seconds, running 3:06:46. It was a satisfying result, looking back, but I still somehow felt I’d messed up the race and felt a bit deflated, if not disappointed. Immediately after I felt terrible and needed my puffer in my bag, so I just focused on getting that instead of soaking in the accomplishment as much. 

Next time, I will be more grateful. PBs are PBs, and they don’t come forever.

But there are things to improve: higher mileage. Immunity. Fuelling. Form.

after: and when it was bad it was horrid

After the race: I. Was. Trashed. Possibly worse than after my first full. My calves and quads were dead, my lips were blue for a good hour despite wearing multiple layers, my cough was bad, and my old groin injury had somehow resurfaced. I was a GD mess. I was in pain standing and walking, but afraid to sit and cramp up.

Nothing looked more appealing than a woman, probably late 50s, laying on the grass with her legs up and feet on the trash can. I laid next to her and we chatted and both had the sillies and shared some jokes and stories. She asked my time and I asked hers. She was late to running, and expressed joy at discovering it later in life. She asked me “how’s your mind”? And I said, “Fine. I think. But you know. I shouldn’t drive” and we both cracked up laughing. She had a beautiful laugh. It was probably my favourite moment in the race besides…

BESDIES MY TEAMMATES ABSOLUTELY CRUSHING IT. Jake, Heidi, Martina, and others had absolutely mind-blowing races. I was elated for them.

Walking to the truck wasn’t possible, so after I picked up my age category prize (4th overall, 1st in age group), we walked a little until Jeff got the truck and drove back to get me. Congratulatory texts and posts started streaming in. The satisfaction of the accomplishment moreso came to me secondhand.

gone gone beyond gone.

During the race, the heart sutra surfaced. Gate (pronounced: gah-eh), gate, paragate para sam gate, bodhi svaha! 

 I first learned it after I listened to Michael Stone’s podcast during a cold, wintery sidewalk run in the suburbs at my parents’ house. In the podcast, Michael said it’s a very good sutra to say after someone has died; for me it comes up in the blank part of a run that’s just effort, where I’m struggling to settle back into it and just accept. Instead I cling to it for distraction, for something to hold on to. One last clinging thing. I also just like the rhythm of it. It’s like counting to eight again and again in a run, but better.

We chanted it at Spirit Loft and at Downward Dog after Michael died in his memory. 

Sometimes it arises out of nowhere, which was what happened in the race. Michael translated it as: gone, gone, beyond gone, across the other shores (the tone of “across to the other shores” is a bit celebratory because of the “svaha!” like a bit of a hooray thrown in).

After the result on the car ride home, I squirmed and fished around, looking to find what was gone, struggling to settle in my accomplishment, in the extreme effort of crossing to the other shore. 

I texted my brother, and Jeff previously texted my mom. Fourth woman sounds kinda cool, and it’s the type of thing non-runners usually find more interesting than running a certain time. Maybe what I needed was the validation. I scrolled through the congratulatory messages I received, searching there too. Trying to find the hooray on the other shore, the bit of joy. But I couldn’t.

The truth is I always feel a peach pit in my throat and ache in my chest after a race since my dad died. A text was never sufficient for the depth and breadth of his enthusiasm for my running. He would want a phone call with a detailed play-by-play. He would’ve looked up the result. He probably would’ve been there, cheering, telling me to kick butt. He would have gasped with amazement and interest that I’d outkicked someone at the line with an “Em-chen! You’re kiddin’!” and a big WOW, and would’ve called me “fast twitch” in the next few emails or texts he sent me.

I didn’t make the mistake of trying to search for my dad in my mom. They are different. I am growing. I didn’t begrudge her for not being him. The night before the race, she told Jeff that after my dad ran his first marathon, she let him know she wouldn’t support him running them anymore. I asked her about it when we got home from the race, curious but also already knowing why. She said, “It’s too extreme, the training takes too much time, you get too thin. My friends were asking what was wrong with him, he got to 145 lbs. 10ks, those are fine. But I said, with three little kids, we wouldn’t come to your races. You could do it on your own time. But we won’t support it.”

At one time I would’ve seen a jab in these words, a pin to deflate my victory balloons, which were already pretty sad and deflated. But now I frame it as touching: a mother’s concern, her sharp attention, even though I am grown up now, noticing and worrying about the lines in my face, the cough that won’t go away, the apparent lack of rest and pleasure in my life, the strange seriousness and intensity of my hobbies.

I sent her a text thanking her again for her help with Elliot and explaining, “I know running isn’t the most pleasant/healthiest hobby but for me it is very exciting to discovery athleticism, teammates, and a sport I have some skill at. Really really appreciative of your help.” She responded, “You are welcome. Glad you were happy with results. My bias will always be for optimal health. Which everyone perceives differently.”

My dad perceived optimal health differently than her, too. He sprinted the last part of his easy runs with his running mates, racing for fun. He always beat Rob, and mostly beat Sean. He ate the burger and the chips. He sometimes had the extra drink. He got chippy in the corners at hockey and didn’t control his emotions very well at all when fishing or playing golf. From the outside, his leisure time sometimes looked stressful. He had a rebellious streak, too. And he savoured the juices of life.

shore up

I am my father and my mother. I am the rebellious, intense child, but also the patient, steadfast mother. I don’t want to run reckless. I try and do things that impact Elliot the least: lunch runs, run commutes, 5:00am runs while he is sleeping. I don’t want to compromise my long-term health in a serious way, or my connections with Jeff and Elliot. I don’t think I am. 

But I can’t deny I’m curious. I’m hungry. I’m keenly interested in limits. I want to be a student of limits. There is a spark here, there is a flame. I’m protective of it. I want to tend to it.

As a teenager and in my twenties, I shrank myself to accommodate my parents’ expectations. Risk-taking was out of sight, never in the open. The dark parts of my personality were hidden away the best that I could and came out in sulking and silence. My seriousness and intensity came out in academics, the secret crushes I had, and maybe our political and philosophical arguments around the dinner table, but I didn’t express it openly in my hobbies. I wrote but always in secret. I wrote with expletives, experimentally, raw and weird and my mom came across my blog once, the F bombs and all, and was shocked and disturbed, and never again followed any of us on social media. I published a poem but later requested it be removed from a website, ashamed of my rawness. I hemmed up all my raw edges.

But my goal this year is to neither puff myself up, press on foolishly headlong into bad decisions, stubborn and imagining myself so alone, nor shrink into the background resentfully, obediently, and only do-- on the surface-- what’s normal or expected or desired from others. 

Neither puff up nor shrink. But also ask: why not me? 

I see no reason I can’t achieve big goals.

I see no reason I can’t go sub-3. 

I say this neither puffed up with ego, or shriveled with shame about the intensity of my own interests, the extremeness of my personality that befuddles and perhaps annoys others, even those I love the most.

So many of the skills I have as a runner– equanimity, understanding and maintaining boundaries, mental toughness, a desire to research, detachment, a deeper spiritual faith or purpose underlying my actions, the deeply joyful appreciation of nature on the trails and recreational paths– all of these things come from my mother. 

But some skills come from my dad, too: taking corners aggressively with elbows out, the cycling between anxiety and excitement, the runner’s high, the chicken-leg calves, the competitive show-boat streak, the hacking cough, the imagination running wild late at night or at work with fantasies of fast finishes and faster times and unimaginable improvement. 

The fascination with something like the heart sutra appearing unannounced at the end of a hard effort? Well, that one is the best. And that one is both of them.

I am a blend of the two, one measured and questioning, one seeking and a little recklessly enthusiastic.

And I am so much more: a mother, a partner, a sister, a teammate, a spiritual seeker.

Why not me?

[cheezlogerratum]

The Grand Slam

           Eddie Baxter is dreaming right about now, about what is up in the air. He's sleeping right now, 8PM, a little strange for a boy at 16. It's a Thursday night, too, on the eve of Christmas Eve, and his mother is even deeper in slumber than he, also kinda strange. At night the house becomes a decoy of something quiet. Everyone in this neighborhood is asleep. You could only describe this place in the night as a ghost town where the ghouls' mortal forms haven't passed on yet, so a neighborhood of lingering presence, and that's all we know.

           Christmas Eve! And it's a Friday, and school is still in session for some twisted reason. Cars line up the side of Golden Lantern, starting and stopping into kids and jaywalkers hustling to class. Eddie is taking the sidewalk, surrounded front and back by parties of twos and threes, and they're walking so, so mercilessly slow, and he can't brush past without the chance of falling into the street... but he's feeling reasonably groggy today, so he takes the chance with little regard. "...uled by an intergalactic government run by John Travol..." And now the pace picks up. The crossguard gives her usual double-take of the traffic and steps into the street with her whistle and reflective octagon with a handle, and with this comes the definitive feeling of death to kick off the day...

           Eddie catches himself dozing off in Gov and eyes the room he's in and swears he wasn't here a second ago. He spots Samir up in the front writing on the board and wonders, "what the fuck". Samir stops writing at the other end of the board, strikes a pose, and walks back to his desk buddied up beside Eddie. "What were we talking about?" Again with the what the fuck, and now Eddie's foot is bouncing.

           "I don't even know."

           "Why're you so tired? Didn't you go to bed at like 9?"

           "... I dunno."

           It's lunch now, and Eddie downs some mac 'n cheese as kids pour in from entrances and stairwells on all sides of the cafeteria. He's looking around at the noise and eventually makes off to the parking lot. He looks over at the front office to see ungodly amounts of kids faking stomach flus and parents faking scheduled dentist appointments to enjoy Xmas Eve how it ought to be enjoyed, and the quasi-nurses figure they don't get paid enough for this and play along with their schemes, almost in spite. Eddie does a 360 peering through windshields and fences and walks out the back gate, and the air feels crisp further down the hill.

           The score is 3-1 and Eddie's attention fades to the doorbell, followed by a rhythmic knock. Eddie goes AFK, opens the front door, and whaddya know... "I brought it over is that alright?" Samir plops his G3 in the kitchen before helping himself to a drink: OJ, extra pulp. Samir looks up from his glass and Eddie's gone. "... Eeeddiee!"

           "WAIT."

           Samir follows the voice upstairs and finds Eddie utterly glued. He reclines on Eddie's bed and watches... which turns out to be the worst seat in the house. He gets up and half-sits on the hamper. He's only getting an angular view of the screen, but he's tired of moving around and settles the best he can, and waits.

           Come night time as the cul-de-sac settles back into ghost-mode, Ms. Baxter, or as some still mistakenly refer to her as Mrs. Baxter, opens the garage door. Both the boys' stomachs sink with a shot of adrenaline, and the mechanical hum whizzes on for what might as well be days. Samir's body flips through fight or flight and, as always, chooses flight and unplugs his Mac mid-game, his player model disappears just as quickly as he does. He somehow miraculously escapes parental confrontation and lugs the computer and himself back home under the lights strung on trees on the sides of the streets. Eddie, bracing for impact, scrambles to shut down the system. Once it obeys, he rips open his backpack and finds some vague scholarly-looking notes he took half-lucid in class to give off the appearance of hardwork. The front door sounds up to Eddie's room at the same time visceral taps of high-heels walk into the house, shutting the door. Holy shit. Holy shit.

           It turns out, luck of the draw perhaps, that Ms. Baxter never checked in on Eddie. In fact, this was almost worse, not only because he couldn't sleep due to Xmas Eve jitters, but also in anticipation of a motherly barge-in that never ever came. Thank God? And his mind wouldn't shut up, so Eddie logs back on and sees what's new in the news. Not much else other than a church shooting in Oregon... "and a happy new year!" He thinks, followed by a tinge of shame. Eddie connects to a Quake III server, where he's "auto-balanced" onto Red Team, alone, against two players on Blue. He spawns and picks up a shotgun, and out of fucking nowhere gets fragged. Now he's just pissed, so he logs off and walks downstairs to the eerie serenity of the Christmas tree, fake mind you. It takes him a minute or two of rumination to realize there are no presents under the tree... Oh mother. Eddie, desperate for slumber at this point, nukes some milk in the microwave. He tries chugging but never succeeds, so he takes his time sipping his warm milk looking up at the gray sky out the window. A nimbus of gray parts and reveals what Eddie thinks is an airplane but is really venus twinkling through the smog, which he later realizes on the fence of consciousness and slumber.

           Feliz Navidad by Jose Feliciano blasts Eddie back into reality, a song he always seems to forget plays on repeat on the radio almost all Christmas Day every damn year... but he's not complaining, necessarily. Eddie's body gravitates to his Gateway and logs in almost by autopilot. His mind drifting off around his room and out the door while his fingers check his e-mail and clicks around some images he found online a while back... what the... when did this...? Eddie doesn't even wanna know and just goes downstairs for Christmas time and... jesus christ. No presents, no relatives, no mother. He peeks around some corners and employs some half-assed investigation tactics such as leaning in a little bit towards a mug in the sink and considering how ajar a door is than usual in hopes of a lead revealing itself, but his mind comes back to his mother once his body starts climbing the stairs towards her room. What is going on? Why can't I be somewhere else? He asks. The sheets on her side of the bed are dog-eared and the lamp is still on, not illuminating much now. Eddie gets that supernatural feeling of being in your parents' bedroom, which he finds exhilerating, actually. The closet's open, the bathroom's open, a drawer's open, and her purse isn't where it should be. Eddie's heart starts pounding, but it'll take him a few minutes to catch on to that.

           Eddie's out on the sidewalk again and it's something like 90 degrees outside. His legs just sorta follow the path and adjust to the divets as he attends to matters in his mind which seem to be foggy. He's thinking and doesn't even know it. There's not a single soul out on the street except the occasional sudan racing either to their family, the hospital, or worse, work. He looks up for a moment and notices the white, searing glare of the ocean, and if he looks long enough he sees tiny individual glares appearing and disappearing at once, and he's okay. He's looking off to his right as he passes houses with families post-gift exchange hanging out inside. After ten minutes or so, Eddie just so happens to witness the moment when a little kid unwraps a Dreamcast, nearly ripping apart the whole package itself. Eddie couldn't see the kid's parents, probably behind the tree, undoubtedly real mind you, but he imagined how happy they were. Eddie's now nearing an intersection and notices the absence of clouds aboveohshit... is that...? That's his Mom. She's at the light oh fuck. Is she on the phone? Eddie turns around and brisk-walks up the hill... he thinks he saw her crying... he doesn't know necessarily why he's walking back to the house but he can't help it. Why does this happen, Eddie thought. His Mom's car catches up to his periphery and vanishes over the hill, but it's like she's waiting there. Why do I do this, Eddie thought. I don't know, Eddie.

           Eddie's almost home now and he hasn't looked up the entire way. He knows what's about to come but can't calm down no matter how much he convinces himself he can do it. Only four houses away and he just wants to explode so his body can stop flipping out. Now he's three houses away and starts to breathe-in breathe-out, since he figures he's been walking for a good half-hour but probably because he can't keep it in any longer. Two houses left and he's feeling primal and lightheaded at this point. One house to go and a car skids past him. He looks behind him and around a truck parked on the street and sees his Mom heeding no speed bump in sight. Eddie doesn't know if he's releived or even more afraid. One thing's for sure, he's gotta take a shit.

           In Eddie's absence from cyberspace, he received an e-mail from jefferymbax62@firstcontact.com. It reads:

Merry Christmas ed man!!!! i'm missing you buddy.. i'd love to see you today if you can? i also need to give you your gift i think you'll like it! let me know where you want to eat and i'll be free around 11:30ish. love you eddie, we're so proud of you! :)

Jeffery M. Baxter Marketing, FirstContact Fax: (949) 555-1448

A new species of fear took over Eddie, but it was much less menacing than the kind he felt at home. It was subdued somewhere in his body, but he responded quickly and left for the Denny's down by Doheny Beach.

The place was literally overflowing, so much so you couldn't even see the framed print of Java Dreams on the wall nor hear Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree blasting throughout the joint. Luckily, using a combination of tippy-toes and craned neck to look above the line, Eddie spotted his father sitting over in the back corner of the restaurant by the kitchen. Making any progress down the aisle whilst dodging waiters balancing pounds of various slams and specials on their fingers was a feat worth mentioning, and mentioned it was, "Aaaand HE'S SAFE!" with the umpire pose and all. Eddie chuckled a little and sat in the booth holding off the eye contact for as long as he could, which ended up being barely two seconds. His Dad started, "... Well!? What's this? Doesn't look like Christmas to me!"

"Heh, I'm sorry."

"It's okay it's okay. Well how goes it? You walk?"

"Yeah."

"That's a nice walk. Good to see ya, buddy... OH! Why didn't you remind me?"

His father pulled out a gift from what seemed like thin air and gave it to Eddie. He didn't realize how weak his hands felt until he started unwrapping it. A few trembles later and there it was, a framed photograph of Eddie and Jeffery in a bowling alley two or so years ago. Eddie didn't know what he was feeling or even thinking, he just kept looking at it with the tape hanging off the sides of the frame.

"Remember that?"

"Uh huh."

"Found that one a few weeks ago in one of the boxes in storage and thought you'd get a kick out of it."

"Yeah yeah, for sure. Thank you."

"Yeah no problem!"

"I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

"Nah I don't need anything, don't worry about it!"

"Okay, thanks Dad."

And everything was wrong. His father started up again, "I gotta use the can, but-"

"Hey there! What can I start you guys off with?"

"Well there you go! I'll have a Coke to drink and... can we order now?"

"Absolutely!"

"Okay I'll get the uhh Grand Slam, eggs overeasy, and how about you Eddie?"

"Uh I'll just get the same I think."

"Two Grand Slams and two Cokes, is that all for you guys?"

"That does it!"

"If you need anything else just holler!"

"Well, ma'am, if you don't mind I'd rather hoot!"

He laughs back and forth at Eddie and the waitress who's laughing along with him, Eddie smiles a bit. Jeffery's still laughing, "Alright I'll be right back." The noise in the place came back to Eddie as he realized they were playing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer through the speakers. Eddie doesn't know what to do. All he can do is feel his fingers which are still holding onto the picture frame as his legs bring him out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk.

Mom still isn't home, and Eddie supposes Samir's Xmas festivities are wrapping up right about now, so he heads on over. By the time he arrives the sky is orange and gently shining through windows and rooms of neighboring houses, which feels weirdly comforting. Samir's family has one of those fancy melodic doorbells, which was almost immediately answered by a tall man with a hell of a beard. He eyes Eddie for a second then turns to the mass of chatter coming from the entire house, "SAMIR!" Somehow Eddie heard Samir's footsteps stomping through the house and could make out exactly where he was. Eddie thanked the man and Samir took over door duty to sneak his buddy inside. Eddie took a look around and saw dozens of relatives talking around and watching movies and cooking dinner and playing cards and taking pictures and cracking jokes and... "Oh man". Samir's room upstairs was filled with six or seven cousins all chatting and drinking and paying no attention to Eddie much at all.

"So what do you wanna do?"

"Let's go down there!"

"Nononono we can't you'll get kicked out, we could play something up here if you want."

"No one would even notice me?"

"C'mon dude I don't wanna get in trouble."

"... I don't even have my computer."

"You can use my sister's probably."

"... Alright... alright. I gotta go to the bathroom though."

"NO I don't trust you, I'm coming with."

Eddie just wanted another look. Now there was music and dancing and kids running around and babies around their Mom's shoulders trying to process what's even happening, and he felt okay. Eddie bent over with elbows on knees while on the toilet and looked down at the tile floor and ruminated towards the indented corners. A knock on the door snatched Eddie from his head and got him wiping, washing, and proceeded to open the door to yet another tall man, wider this time. It wasn't until this man spoke that Eddie recognized this man was Samir's father, "What are you doing Eddie?"

"I just needed to-"

"You need to go."

"I didn't-"

"Please."

Eddie hesitated for a second then sprinted into Samir's closet spilling some beers in the process, "HEY WHAT THE oh" and Samir's father came in and grabbed Eddie from his hidey-hole and pulled him out of the room, leading him with an armpit grip down the stairs, and out the house, people staring and everything. Now the sky was really fading, and Eddie, feeling that fizzy bodily sort of sadness all around, picked himself up and walked home, never looking up.

The house was as it was except everything seemed to have a buzzing fog around it. Eddie logged onto his computer and booted up Quake to find servers full again, and he played through the night until he conked out drooling into the keys and kicked from the server. He woke up in his bed for a second all disgruntled and lost. Eddie's body shuffled around under the sheets until it hit the right spot then fell deeper into sleep, eventually noticing waves coming up ahead of him and the silhouette of Catalina blocking the last of the Sun.