#because minnesota got so much god damn snow this week

[gottalovebroody]

Can I just lay here for a month and life just give me a break? Cuz I would like a break. Just push pause on this and come back in a few weeks when life is less terrible.

[alleiradayne]

An Update

It’s been a millennia since I wrote anything. I know I don’t owe anyone any writing (technically, I do, but that’s a different story, no pun intended). But I wanted to keep my followers in the know.

I have been up to my eyeballs in the dumbest fucking shit lately and I’m not even talking about COVID-19. My work sucks. The only good thing about it is that my team, the immediate people I work with on the regular, are awesome. But I need to get out soon. The actual work itself is fucking soul-sucking and I hate it. I get very little downtime, which is a major contributor to why I haven’t written much lately. Not because I don’t have the free time at work like I used to, but because I don’t have the mental, emotional, creative, or physical energy to commit to writing when I get home.

My daughter is 16 months old. That’s all I need to say about her (she’s wonderful, but a handful).

I’ve been reading way more lately in an effort to relieve stress.

God damn Minecraft.

I had sinus surgery in December and while the recovery was short, the surgery did not achieve the intended results. I still have major allergy symptoms without being allergic to anything. I was sick with sinus infections for the better part of two months and was only finally feeling sort of back to normal before right before I went to Vegas. Now I’m dealing with severe seasonal allergies after the snow melted here.

But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. What has really irritated me lately is this pile of bullshit:

Google as the monolith it is shouldn’t fucking exist. It’s too convenient to get embedded in all their services such that, when one of them breaks, you’re cut off from all of their services. This story is long and convoluted. I’ll do my best to keep it succinct (I’ve already failed, I know).

Back in January, my primary Google account was compromised. After piecing together the crazy puzzle of what happened, I determined that someone obtained my Google account password, logged into the Google Store with it, and made two fraudulent purchases using two different payment methods (PayPal and my credit card, both of which were saved to my Google Pay profile under this primary email account) equaling a very large sum of money (like $4k).

My credit card company, bless their corrupt little souls, texted me immediately about the VERY expensive charge for the second order and I freaked out. I didn’t get any emails confirming these orders because the fuckers that hacked my Google account (I suspect Google had a data breach because they skipped all two-factor authentication I had enabled and I never received any notification of my account being accessed like I normally do) put a filter on my Gmail inbox to mark all Google Store emails as Opened (or Read) and to immediately toss them into the trash. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.

I immediately resolved these fraudulent charges with disputes. They never even hit my credit card (which was canceled and I was issued a new one) or my bank account (PayPal). Google, however, sucks at this shit. The first purchase was made at 4:30 AM. I never saw it until later that night. Once an hour has passed after a purchase has been made from Google’s store, they cannot cancel it. How fucking ridiculous is that?

So Google Support said to just refuse the FedEx packages. I rerouted them to a FedEx drop location because I didn’t want anyone to steal them off my front step (because that’s what I suspected the scam was all along, why else have them delivered them to my fucking house?) The first package arrived, I went to the drop location which was a Walgreen's, and I told the cashier that I needed to refuse the package and have FedEx return it to the sender. I said this several times to the person helping me. But then she had me sign the FedEx scanner and when I went to leave, she pushed the box to me and said, “You don’t want it?”

It gets worse.

While I felt dumb for signing for the package, when the second package came in the next day, I also signed their scanner but it was to actually refuse the package. I don’t know why that’s how it worked, but it did. 

Package 1: Accepted. Package 2: Refused.

This is important.

During this time, my Google Pay profile under my primary Google account was placed on a temporary freeze. But on February 10th, once everything had been returned (FedEx managed to get the first package returned, I have the tracking numbers, it made it), my Pay profile had been reactivated.

Which was really great because my Play Music and HBO subscriptions had lapsed. So I immediately renewed them.

Problem solved, right?

Wrong.

I tried buying a movie before I flew to Vegas and got a very similar error that I’d seen previously when my account had originally been frozen at the end of January due to the fraudulent charges.

Through several Support chats and getting the run around, I come to find that my Pay profile has been permanently closed because I violated the Google Pay Terms of Service. And that Google’s policy is to not discuss the details of the issue with anyone. And I cannot close that Pay profile and create a new one under that same Google account because it’ll just get flagged and closed again.

While pissed, I resolved to fix it after Vegas because I didn’t have the capacity to handle it while prepping for that trip.

I get back and the problem still exists. A part of me hoped it would just go away. So over the last week I went back and forth with Google Pay support on what the fuck is going on with my pay account. Several times they repeated the same thing to me: account is closed due to violation of ToS, can’t discuss it with you per our policy. Great.

During that time, I noticed that I had like, $200 worth of Google Store credit on my account because of the packages I had unintentionally accepted (I had previously signed up for Google One so I could offload some storage to their cloud, and as a part of that Google One sub, they offer a percent of Google Store purchases as Google Store credit). So I wanted to see if I could actually use it. I kinda figured they’d take the $200 back seeing as that the charge never processed. When I tried to buy something, I finally got an error that said my Pay profile had been closed for violating the ToS.

The Narrator: Can you put that in a folder and label it “Shit I Already Know”?

I filed a complaint with the Attorney General of Minnesota because Google was not allowing me to do anything to resolve the issue. Every email response I sent was met with a similar response of “we’ve reviewed your account and we’ve determined it must remain closed”. I went Full Karen™ on Google Pay support and threatened them with legal action if they did not tell me what the fuck I did to violate their ToS. That was last Thursday.

After a few more emails over the weekend (only like, two), I suddenly received  a response at 6am today stating that my Google Pay profile had been reactivated.

I resubscribed to HBO and Play Music without issue. (I did, however, create another mess with Google Family sharing, but that’s a different story, although very much related to and caused by this one, and I won’t get into it here).

When I checked my Pay profile, the $200 in Google Store credit had been removed. I think they finally checked the tracking numbers on those two orders that I sent back and realized I had actually sent them back instead of defrauding them by making a purchasing, rejecting the charge, keeping the package, and pocketing the $200 in-store credit like they probably assumed.

I also think Google might have a big data breach mess on their hands right now. Change your passwords regularly folks!

TLDR: I’m tired. :)

[midrashic]

[headcanon] a map of hidden places i: new york city

{ a map of hidden places }

the first time james visits new york is more accident than anything; there’s a weapons expo and it’s january, and surely new york in january can’t be any more unpalatable than scotland in january. there are restaurants and boutiques whose names were, even then, synonymous with luxury, but james spends most of his time in the hotel room with the nanny playing with the puzzle ball he’d received that christmas. enid takes him to the natural history museum to see the mammoth bones, to central park to stare at the bare, shivering tree skeletons while he mounds old snow into various blobby shapes.

he doesn’t remember any of this; by the time he’s ten, new york is just a vague smear of concrete and solitude in his imagination, a glimpse of a faded marble facade that blends into all the other glimpses of all the other cities of everywhere else his father has ever had a conference.

for years, there’s the odd holiday abroad with his aunt, a trip with a school friend whose father owns a major hotel in the city or something. then there’s the navy. he learns new york in thirty-six hour stretches of shore leave, and he learns new york through the eyes of dozens of royal navy sailors, which mainly means that he learns very fast which bars near the harbor serve something roughly as strong as paint thinner for a measly two dollars per drink, or a dozen for a twenty.

but he learns other things, too. he saves up the days of walking on solid earth for the weeks when his feet won’t touch dry land and wanders into the neighborhoods that his well-to-do parents and guardians never let him anywhere near: bushwick, the lower east side, basically all of the bronx. new york city’s just hit its peak for violent crime, though someone only attempts to mug him once and gets a broken jaw for his trouble besides. the strangest thing for a brit is the gunshots that will ring out randomly, multiple times a night, but that’s true for every american city he’s ever visited.

he experiments with the subway. the tube in the 80s and 90s was no picnic, but hell, he learns, is a suspiciously empty new york subway car.

one strange thing: over the course of one particular weekend, he runs into a girl he slept with on shore leave in kingstown in a pizzeria named something uncreative like “48th street pizza,” an old university professor in a rare book store, a boy who was in the class above him at eton in bryant park, and then the girl again at a bar that night. (there is indeed a repeat performance.) this is a statistically accurate sampling of how often he recognizes a face from his past. back then, it was the third-largest city in the world, after tokyo and osaka, but it could sometimes feel very fatalistically small.

& then he’s in new york fairly often as a junior agent, but he doesn’t really tap the veins of the city until he’s a double-oh.

the thing about new york is that, for all that you tend to run into people you haven’t seen in years fairly frequently, it’s a great place to disappear. there’s no way to cover every possible exit when planning an ambush and a thousand laundromats, bars, and, hell, magic shops to duck into when you’re being tailed. vaguely seedy fleatraps that bill themselves as “youth hostels” where you can rent a room for four months and leave without anyone having asked you your name. the city seems to boast a disproportionate number of people sitting alone in the corners of coffeeshops, bars, hotel lobbies. it’s the first thing he thinks of when the name shows up in a mission briefing or news article: the pure relief of being quietly ignored, of being anyone, of being no one. he kills a drug kingpin and sips espresso at a café patio ten feet away as the police begin to boredly take statements. he garrotes a man in a bodega bathroom and no one notices for three days because it’s always out of order anyway. new york makes it so easy, so very easy to let a face become a file become a statistic. it has a carelessness with its people that he’s used to seeing in the third world, in places where the corruption is overt, in places that don’t even pretend to have a functioning police system. new york doesn’t care about you.

it also makes it so very easy to pick people up.

in a lot of ways, new york is a lot like london. it’s not every city in the world where you can get a sandwich at four am because the son of a bitch you were surveilling spent five hours haggling over uranium shipments with his contact, which was four hours and fifty minutes longer than he needed to spend. there’s a certain level of mercenary profit-seeking required to keep a sandwich shop open all night, damn circadian rhythms.

but new york takes it to excess. in london, you can probably find 24/7 takeaway within a reasonable walking distance, but in new york, you’re guaranteed to have at least five in the immediate neighborhood and eight more if you’re willing to go a little further for a substantial uptick in quality. during a particularly frustrating bit of downtime not longer after the quantum incident, bond strolls into a midnight karate class for no other reason than he’s bored and wants to see what kind of people can only do karate in the middle of the night. it’s a surprisingly friendly bunch, two night shift workers, a sleep-deprived college student, a jumpy little tweaker, and a single mother who decides to do this with her scant two hours of free time weekly. it’s taught by a petite woman who hits with the precision of an architect and used to practice jiu-jitsu competitively until a back strain caused her to switch to a sport with more standing and less rolling around on the ground.

he does try to sleep with her, but they actually end up sharing a platter of nachos in between (fittingly) manhattans at a bar and chatting about differences in karate conditioning techniques and shitty b-movies. the bartender joins in for the latter. he walks away that morning to another endless round of negotiation with the cia feeling strangely refreshed for a man who got no sleep and no sex.

bond ends up censoring his new york reports more than any other locale, not because missions go wrong in new york more often than anywhere else, but because they tend to go wrong in utterly baffling and sometimes embarrassing ways when he’s in new york. in the reports, he changes the timely plague mask-wearing flash mob that allowed him to escape his pursuer to a traffic jam, the girl wearing a dress made of lettuce that beat a terrorist into submission with her tomato purse into a well-placed police officer, the message he got painted on his nails in gold glitter to a simple note (it worked, the fsb searched him and found nothing and apparently manicured men in brioni are common enough in the city that no one even gave him a second look). new york is many things, but it spits on the dignity of the profession.

felix hates new york, hilariously. he calls it “the big asshole.” he hates the garbage sitting out on the streets, the way you can never tell whether a puddle is rain or urine, the flimsy little metrocards, the food deserts, the traffic, my god, the traffic. (bond has to agree: it’s bad. he once walked to laguardia instead of waiting for a taxi.) the only places he hates more than new york are minnesota and south sudan, which are the foreseeable consequences of a boy from texas spending his first winter away from home in the midwest and being a sane person with a functioning sense of smell. but for some reason, international criminals turn up in new york a lot more often than they do in ann arbor or south sudan, so felix has no choice but to spend sometimes weeks or months at a time in his third-least-favorite place in the world.

(bond knows why he really hates new york: in 2003 he was chasing a jewel smuggler and ran straight into a fruit cart. he was washing fruit juice out from behind his ears for a week and he lost the target. after that, anyone would hate this place.)

when bond is in midtown west, he makes a point of stopping by the trenta tre pizzeria, which boasts pizza that isn’t oily, isn’t too chewy or crisp, and boasts a sauce with a salty-to-sweet balance of flavors that make his eyes roll back in his head. he’s had the real deal, pizza lovingly crafted by hand, topped with buffalo mozzarella, and wood-fired in a tiny neapolitan back room. he knows better than to tell an italian--or anyone who he needs to think of him as a well-traveled sophisticate--but he prefers this.

coincidentally, the pizzeria is located next to a bodega that displays its fruit on wooden stands on the sidewalk. behind the peaches lives a cat, well-fed and sleek and a shameless thief of chicken parm pizza toppings. he doesn’t know her name--the owner is from rural ethiopia and doesn’t speak english, mandarin, arabic, french, german, spanish, russian, or any of the four other languages bond speaks--but in his head he’s named her selina after that greatest of feline burglars, catwoman. selina is good company after a violent mission, and almost never sheds on him, which is more than he can say about the other cats in his life. if he lingers after the pizza to pet her a little longer, no one needs to know.

the events, the new trends, the previews, the releases, blah blah blah. the access is touted more than it actually matters. he’s sure that- if he actually lived in new york he would appreciate the convenience of dwelling in the obligatory stop of every tour and the go-to place to drum up media attention. but he doesn’t and he has enough frequent flier miles that his grandchildren will probably be getting complimentary upgrades and if he really wants to be at the premiere of a much-hyped performance of la traviata he’ll make it there somehow. he does notice that the access has given new yorkers a strange sense entitlement--when a fashionable event happens someplace other than new york, the resentment is deeper, the sense of loss sharper--as if everything important should happen in new york. still. he brings home a tea flavored with the newly discovered ruby chocolate months before it becomes widely available as a souvenir for q. there are compensations. 

when q finally punches down his fear of air travel for long enough to make it to new york, bond keeps him out of manhattan. they drift around brooklyn and queens, wandering streets balanced on the knife edge of an existence that is almost suburban--dogs everywhere and strollers between the specialty shops and markets. they sit in a soda fountain famous for its egg creams and share a sundae named after elvis. q orders three different sodas--he’s a connoisseur of exotic beverages--and pronounces the house blend the best cherry soda he’s ever tasted. bond smiles at him around his ice cream float. the place is packed, every seat filled, but here, at a little round table tucked into the corner, he and q might as well be invisible, being aggressively ignored by everyone except the soda jerks. just two people, forcefully alone together. the last two people in the world.

[thepinkcar]

Wedding imagine

Sorry it took so long! The past month has been crazy and I really wanted this to be good. Here you are:

Minnesota

pairing: reader x timothée chalamet

words: 967

A winter wedding had been what your mother had always wanted. She found something charming about the way Minnesota snow looked in deep December. You’d come to crave it too—the twinkling Christmas lights peeking through snow-covered roofs and snow piling between the deep slopes of a menorah. 

Now you sat in your dressing room watching guests walk into the large tent while snowy mountains sat in the background. You’re heart fluttered with glee.

“Y/N you’re glowing!” Tatiana squealed, taking a makeup brush and making random strokes across your cheeks. 

“I just feel so happy,” you sighed. “I’m finally going to marry him. The apple of my eye…”

“The Northern Light of your Svalbard,” your other friend Cleo swooned, landing in a chair next you. You and Tatiana gave her a side eye and she shrugged. “Norway? You know, the auroras borealis? They happen, like, once a year?”

You both continued to stare at Cleo and she sighed, slumping into her seat. “Nevermind. You should feel excited though. Timothée’s quite the catch.”

“And he’s mega hot,” Tatiana added, picking up a tube of liquid lipstick. “Like, it’s unreal.”

“And he has a huge heart!”

“And probably a huge—“

“Hey!” you laughed, swatting away Tatiana’s prodding fingers. She scoffed, trying to hide a smirk.

“I was gonna say a huge, um… Cleo what else is huge?”

Cleo tapped a finger against her lips in deep thought, hanging upside down from her seat. “I’d say smile.”

“Exactly.”

“Well it doesn’t matter what you were going to say. Nothing could make me stop feeling this happy,” you replied, twisting the engagement ring on your finger. 

“What if he died before you got to walk down the aisle,” Cleo suggested listlessly. You and Tatiana gasped.

“Cleo!”

“What? It’s a reasonable question. Tim’s probably got some sort of bounty on his head. Don’t most famous people get assassinated?”

“No, that’s presidents,” Tatiana protested waving a mascara tube wildly.

“Who cares? That’s not going to happen. Besides we’re near cliffs and mountains and forest. Not even the paps couldn’t find us if they wanted to,” you said calmly, a sly grin creeping its way onto your lips. “They’d freeze to death before they could.”

There was a systematic knock on the door before it opened to reveal your father dressed in his best suit. “Y/N they’re ready.”

You rise slowly, your lace dress falling elegantly at your hips and draping to the floor as you slowly took a step towards the door. Tatiana bit her lip and glanced a white flower arrangement in the corner.

“Y/N wait!”

She hurriedly snatched a flower and tucked it gingerly into your hair before stepping back with a smile. “Beautiful. How could you not be happy when you look this beautiful?” You felt the corner of your eyes sting and you pulled her into a tight hug. Cleo walked over and joined you and after a minute you all let go, eyes moist but make up in tact. Cleo handed you a bouquet of blue and white flowers.

“Go get ‘em tiger,” Cleo whispered giving a small encouraging fist pump. You snicker and follow your dad out of the dressing room and into the tent. 

When you saw Timothée at the end of the aisle you could barely find your breath. When the first note of music played you began to wonder if you’d ever find it again. Timothée smiled knowingly as the beginning of Can’t Help Falling in Love played while you walked with your dad down the aisle. 

His nose and cheeks were tinged rose by the time you met him at the end of the aisle. You didn’t take your eyes off of him for the rest of the ceremony and he had no intention of doing so either. You both finally pulled away from each other’s gaze at the mention of your vows.

You watched in amusement as Timothée anxiously rummaged in his tux pocket for his paper, his dark curls falling into his face. 

“Timmy, breathe,” you whispered, biting back the urge to smooth his hair back. “It’s just little ol’ me.” Timothée took a deep breath and carefully revealed a tightly folded slip of paper. He quickly opened it and sighed before looking up.

“I considered for a while when we decided we were writing our vows to just come up and ad lib. Thankfully some good friends of mine reminded me why I shouldn’t,” he said with a chuckle, nervously running a hand through his hair.

“Damn straight!” The audience laughed when Timothée finger-gunned the culprit.  He chuckled nervously again, his anxious eyes looking back at the paper.

“Uh, Y/N. The day I first met you shouldn’t have happened at all. I was visiting an old friend of mine who had returned to their home town in Minnesota in a quarter life calling to “find themselves.” Like any good friend I went to check on them to see how they were doing in the midst of their life crisis. 

“I meant to visit for a couple of days and before I knew it I was there for two weeks exploring this small town in Minnesota. Everyday I’d visit an old cider shop that was only open during the fall and sit there for hours in my thoughts watching people go by. 

“Then one day Y/N came in a harried frenzy, hair disheveled and carrying three different bags filled with god knows what. In her effort to accomplish this balancing act, she dropped one of them, leaving a sea of books to spill across the floor. 

“I rushed over at the opportunity to talk to her and helped to pick them up. That’s when I saw her art journal flipped open, page after page filled with the most beautiful drawings I had ever been given the pleasure to witness. 

“But there was one drawing that caught my eye in particular before I returned the journal. It was a young man sitting alone at a table, staring somewhere to the left with a small cup of cider in his hand.” The guests hummed in excitement and Timothée grinned, closing his paper slightly. 

“It was me. I didn’t think anyone that passed through the shop had bothered to acknowledge me, and it was really touching that someone did. Especially since that someone was you.” You blushed, your cheeks beginning to ache from how hard you had been smiling.

“I like thinking about that day because it brought me to you. I shouldn’t have been in Minnesota, but now I can’t imagine having never met you. Y/N I love you and I think you’re it for me. I’m not a fate guy by any means, but I know that if fate did truly exist you would be me soulmate and it would be an honor to marry you.” 

You didn’t realize that you’d started to cry until you felt a tear hit the back of your hand. Timothée’s eyes were beginning to water the longer he watched you, and you were tempted to skip your vows if it meant you were allowed to touch him sooner. 

You went on to say your vows, telling your side of the same story, ending it with “There’s a poem I’ve always loved that I think says exactly how I feel—

I would like to be the air

that inhabits you for a moment

only. I would like to be that unnoticed

& that necessary.

Tim, I hope you’ll let me be your air, and that you’ll be willing to become mine. I can’t imagine life without you.” By the end of it, Timothée had started crying as much as you were.

The two of you couldn’t say ‘I do’ fast enough when Timothée finally pulled you in for the kiss, dipping you back dramatically. You snickered at the gesture but pulled him in tighter, feeling him lift you off your feet and carry back down the aisle.

[jatamansi-arc]

Okay so like... I sent a message to @illusivexemissary​ about how I watched Gabriel’s introductory episode the other day and was just sort of fucking laughing at it? Because I just... I worked as a caretaker for an apartment building for four years. 

Every single one of those tenants would tell you, and I’m not kidding, “This is a really quiet, nice complex.” It’s a lie. It’s a terrible fucking lie. An apartment complex is never quiet. There’s always weird shit going on. Too many people in too close of a space. You may think it’s peaceful but you have become complacent. 

It’s worth noting that our complex also had a contract with a few agencies to rehome severely mentally ill people permanently, as a means to keep them in the community. So there are some stories here that reflect that fact and, at worst, most of them were just memorable for harmless, if not interesting, quirks. Our cookiecutter tenants were the strangest ones. So let’s jump into my fond memories.

I literally just spent like... an hour digging out my pictures for this, so you’re gonna have a time.

To begin with, before I moved into this apartment complex, I lived in New Jersey. I was the oldest person in the house, at 18 years. This was in 2004. 

My house caught on fire in November of that year. It was also Joe’s fault. Joe was not well liked. We declared war on him shortly thereafter.

But we did drink well under age and party in the house after it caught fire, ‘cause fuck the police.

We also did awful things to people who came to the house for any reason. This is why you don’t let 14-18 year olds live in a house unattended by any parental supervision whatsoever.

But I couldn’t get a job, so I ended up moving back home to Minnesota. I lived in a house for awhile, but shit happened and we ended up losing the housing when my mom got incredibly sick. So, being homeless, we hit the pavement and tried to find cheap living arrangements we could get into ASAP.

We found an apartment complex composed of six buildings that required a caretaker. We paid $250 in rent and worked about “ten hours a week” and it would cover the cost of the rental’s deduction. Seems legit, right? 

No, it was a lie. it was indentured servitude. It was never 10 hours a week and things were always going wrong. But that’s neither here nor there, we decided to take the apartment under the guise of a “it works until something better.”

This was where I moved to:

See all that sidewalk? I had to shovel that five times a day in winter. It was hell. I could have lifted fucking giraffes, okay. Sometimes it snowed clear up to my second floor balcony.

Like what is this madness? This was six feet off the ground, y’all.

Damn right, sad snow blob. But that’s neither here nor there. There was also an exquisitely nice pool:

Oh wait, that was what the pool looked that when I wasn’t the one taking care of it. Five teams of caretakers and not a bloody one of them but me could do this. This is what it looked like when I was in charge of it. 

Do you see anything wrong with this picture? Anything at all? Look at the writing. In the four years I was in this hell, not once did this rule ever come to apply to me. I never was accompanied personally by a jovial Scottish man to the pool. The only eventful thing that ever happened to me was that I caused an elderly Russian man to have a heart attack. Why? Things frequently went wrong with the pool. Sometimes they were minor.

That’s the chemical reader. It’s not supposed to be in the middle of the pool. One of the other caretakers wasn’t paying attention and kicked it in. At least it can be fished out with a net. That yellow cord you see? That’s a vacuum. You attach it to the pool’s natural suction and vacuum the floor and wall of the pool to clear out debris. The pole is literally like 18 feet long, if not more. Our pool vacuum was ancient. It was awful. Literally, it would break constantly and the actual suction device would get stuck on the bottom of the deep end of the pool and someone would have to jump in and get it.

One summer, my boss decided to keep the pool open beyond labor day. In Minnesota, this is an odd decision as September temperatures are only around 40-60 degrees at best, and this story takes place in the first week of October. It’s 7am, the pool opens at 10am, and I’m out trying to do my gig. Vacuum breaks and I scream at whatever gods will hear me because I don’t want to jump into 20 degree water nobody is even using to retrieve the thing. Without any choice, because I can’t jab it unstuck, I strip down to my bra and panties. Outside. On a frigid October morning. I take a deep breath because I know what’s coming, and then dive in. It’s like hitting a brick wall and I finally manage to get the thing unstuck, and surface to discover this 90 year old Russian guy named Petyr standing out on his balcony, giving me a huge thumbs up. I stare, mortified. He stands there the rest of the time, minding me. I rush through everything and go to turn in all the supplies. I come out of the office and there’s an ambulance at the building across the way from the pool. Run over there, still wet but at least with my overclothes on, and try to become informed of the situation. 

Petyr had suffered, most likely, a fatal heart attack. I was the last person to see him alive. I think I may have accidentally killed him. Awkward.

And this is only one thing I experienced, mind you. As the wifi in our building used to say, and it was apt:

Because this apartment complex existed in some sort of quasi-dimension of its own creation, and because why not, there were high amounts of two things. One was white squirrels.

The other was mormons. There were always mormons in the courtyards. Much like kin, their crisp whites, too, dotted the space starting early in the morning. They played soccer. Every day. It was very strange. I had a photo of this but I can’t find it, and that is immensely disappointing because it’s nothing short of hilarious. There was one thing that made them different in my mind, and it was that you weren’t punished with picking up the corpses of the mormons when you were not perky enough for the upper management.

Upper management also learned very quickly that this was a terrible punishment for me, because I wasn’t bothered by it. I once got into a huge fight with the proper manager for this building and she told me I had to pluck out all the dead animals from the pool for my “attitude.” I did this and threw them on her deck, the squeal thud of bloated dead things colliding with the door to her porch echoing through the courtyard. 

She could have fired me for this, but I was the most reliable and dedicated employee she had, so it put her in a bad row if she did. So she tolerated my dead animal rebellion and gave me a set of master keys instead. We would come to blows again a month later, where, as obsessed with cobwebs as she was? Her full moon ass on displace, panties half exposed, as she complained about a missed set on the basement stairs. Asking me, with attitude, and repeatedly if I had seen what she meant. 

It was probably not a wise decision to say, “Not around your fat ass, no.”

Eventually we forged a surprisingly decent relationship where she left me alone and I did my job and was Captain Reliable If Not Disgruntled, and my problems with Management diminished outside of Upper Upper Management. Who was I fairly convinced wanted us to die at any given moment sooner than cost than any more money.

This was a notice we were given when we had to clean and paint four apartments on a July day. It was 98 degrees. I turned on the AC anyway and dealt with the very irate CEO of the company two days later, a man named Ira.

They also seemed perfectly okay not labeling any of the chemicals we used so it was like “hey, want a chemical burn?” No? TOO BAD.

You may be saying, “Felicia, this is pretty funny but I thought this was relevant to the antics that Gabriel was up to in his introduction episode.” Listen, y’all, I’m just getting started. Like, you want some antics? Let’s talk about my coworkers. ‘Cause after being there for awhile, I was entrusted to handle a lot of money and do paperwork. This included filling out and processing applications for both new tenants and our hires. 

We had someone come to do an application for the latter, as a previous coworker got fired for having a lot of sex with the tenants. I probably don’t have to talk about how that was against the rules. But I did the application for this lady that comes in to replace him. Processing said app, after I collected payment and she had left, I noticed this:

I had reservations about this one. Stripper was probably the most legitimate part of her application. Boss hired her due to us absolutely needing someone, but my reservations were correct when she got wasted on cocaine and whiskey and thought she was apparently a superhero and jumped off her third story balcony and broke her leg.

This is just one of them. I saw many coworkers come and go of various lifestyles and interests. We had drag queens who did all their work in full costume. There was another one who was a 4′11″ redhead named Joie that pulled a gun on her boyfriend and then ran him over with her car and then was arrested for possession of meth (and my character, Joie, is named for her.) One, Carleton, was fanatically obsessed with his pet piranhas. It goes on like this.

Bethany, for example, ate crayons and was obsessed with true crime. Andrew had OCD and routinely dismantled the locks on the doors at all hours, and had to hammer a new nail into the wall every day. I know this because I lived above him and heard all of these things. Cameron addicted half of our coworkers on meth, and slept with two of them. Pamela had a nervous breakdown. Rachel was mild mannered and was fired for oversleeping through a shoveling time around 6am on accident, which seemed incredibly pale in comparison to everyone else. And Cathy, the only coworker who seemed to last longer than a year, cut her own fingers off in a freak accident and we had to rush her to the hospital. 

It goes on like this. There are more. There are so many more.

I was painting an apartment once with Cathy, for example, and Teresa, another coworker of mine. We were attacked by a SWAT team breaking in the door. Apparently someone had tipped them off that there had been a meth lab in operation by the past tenants. I don’t know if that was true, but having the SWAT team pointing lazer-guided sights at you is pretty terrifying.

And then there were the tenants. I loved a lot of them, and others I was glad to see go. There were several with alcohol problems that would come to my door at all hours, thinking that my apartment was there’s, and I would have to escort them home. 

There was a man named Mark who had been relocated into his unit by a local rapid rehousing organization. Schizophrenic and without a good response to medication, Mark could be a handful. I never got mad at him outside of his calls at 3am, which I was required by law to get out of bed and investigate, because I come from a family ravaged by the same disease. Mark wasn’t a bad guy by any stretch, but his complaint calls and quirks were amazing. In the four years I was there, I can tell you that he had Star Wars playing 24/7/365. Loudly, to boot, because he was mostly deaf. When I cleaned the building he was in, with him living on the third floor, he would oftentimes come out any say hello.

One time I pulled my egregiously heavy vacuum up the six flights of stairs and pulled open the third floor fire doors, only to discover his entire fridge sitting outside of his apartment. I knock on his door and a disheveled Mark opens the door. I ask why his fridge, obviously, is located out of his apartment. Mark tells me that it is haunted. So at 8am, I offer to bless his fridge to cleanse it of spirits and we move it back into his apartment. He never had a problem with it again. 

A couple weeks later, however, Mark tells me that the apartment across the hall from him is constructing the Death Star and I need to tell them that is a very dangerous course of action. I investigate this complaint, as I was required to, and discover that the tenant across from him has been hanging a few new pictures. I commend them for their good humor on it, talk to Mark and tell them that I’ve talked them out of this, and he is content.

I will field at least five more calls from Mark over the years about various Star Wars battleships being built in apartments.

In the same building, many other strange happenstances came to pass. The #01 building seemed to be a strange place onto itself. 

Birds nested in the windows and would get stuck in the stairwells.

Ants would appear out of nowhere in swarms of the thousands.

There was a strange child in one of the units known as Igor and routinely caused problems for management. 

Someone died and was not found for almost four weeks. Everyone else on staff was too afraid to field this call about an unusual decaying smell in the first floor hallway coming from an apartment, and so it fell to me. I, awkwardly familiar with the odor of decay, did a wellness check. Tenant was not well. Tenant was black and bloated and very much in the worst stages of decay. Upper Management was too scared to handle it, so I was forced to do paperwork and wait for the police and the hazmat team to remove the body. We ended up ripping out the entire apartment from head to toe.

Another time, an apartment next to Mark’s (a third floor studio), was rented by teenage tenants who had clearly never lived alone before. They made macaroni and cheese and caused and oil fire. They then threw water on it and spread it elsewhere. They call me, in their on fire apartment, and tell me exactly that. I ask them if they had called 911, and they inform me that no, they are still standing there in the apartment and just letting me know. I have to, in my booty short pajamas, run barreling through the apartment building while managing a call to 911, evacuating tenants. 

Oh, here’s a squirrel nest. That happened too.

And these are just a few of the weird things. I also found an early 1900′s sewing machine just sitting in the stairwell, abandoned.

My building was another strange place. Perhaps it was because we were the closest to the #01 building that some of the weirdness wore off. Because when we first moved in, our apartment had roaches. It should have been a sign. We didn’t take it seriously. We had it taken care of and never had a problem afterwards, but that’s only because the Universe had other ideas.

Like that there was a transformer looked directly behind the building, that you could see from my window, that routinely blew during any major storm. And not only just exploded like a gunshot, I mean that it routinely exploded and fell down and power lines were down. It was a mess.

Not once, but twice, the lines would push down the wooded area’s branches into the #00′s building. This meant trees and shrubs caught on fire behind the building. Thankfully our buildings were brick and therefore hard to ignite, otherwise this was two opportunities for the goddamn building to catch on fire.

My apartment was also a weird place. And I’m not referring to the complex here. This is my apartment. Beaten and abused by so many caretakers before it, the patio doors constantly would fly open even upon a gentle breeze that was stronger than normal. Which is something considering a paranoid motherfucker lived there before me at some point, and there were at least six locks on the patio doors themselves. And another three on the door.

Oh, and one time a glass panel fell out. I had to rescreen the actual doors, too, no less than four times. Because the wood was fucking rotting away.

This is how my cats escaped several times. Because having four bloody patio doors isn’t enough to keep out drafts, let alone anything else. Furthermore, inexplicably, Virginia Creeper lived in my patio structure, and no matter what we did, and we pulled it out dozens of time and even tried to have it professionally removed, it came back and would repeatedly just take over everything. Slowly climbing the building and compromising the structural integrity of my deck.

It produced berries in the late summer and kids would eat them and then end up sick. Kids are so dumb, I swear. Eventually I stopped warning them about this because they kept breaking everything I would put out to try and make the apartment feel a bit more like home. 

Or at least something slightly less like a personal Hell I was financially trapped in for four years.

We had a strict rule that nobody was, obviously, allowed to drive up on the property to unload trucks or moving vehicles. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was the white dudes who thought this one didn’t apply to them. Here’s someone moving into my building. 

There were other buildings, too. There was an ICE raid in the #08 building at one point, though I’m not sure why. And there was a single mom of like eight who lived on the third floor who was fucking hilarious but otherwise this was where the caretakers lived, usually. You already know how that goes.

#16 was there the Upper Management lived, so she kept it quiet. The absolute worst offender was a chronically ill man who would frequently have severe seizures and we would have to keep a close eye on him for his own health and safety. #16 was a great building. The bottom floor was entirely boilers, laundry, and the Assistant Manager’s apartment. Most days she slept late and donned velour track suits, and usually was in charge of changing locks around the complex and occasionally she would bang the vents to try and get the heat to kick on. Kim was great. I loved Kim. Always getting in trouble with Stella, our Manager, for doing the logical thing, she had developed an apathy the rest of us could only admire.

#17 was where most of the rapid rehousing folks were placed. Petyr lived in this building. We had a few other people of note in #17; John was a man who lived in his unit for 3 years and his walls were so dark with nicotine that you’d thought they were just brown. We prayed every day that John would never move out, for as nice as he was. Socheeta stole plants. There was a lady named Kimberly who was a srs artist and had a giant wall sculpture of a vagina as the central focus of her apartment. The most notable tenants were the Ficus family, who would complain about everything. If someone coughed at 2am, the wife would call. If a piece of mail was discarded out of the trashcan, instead of picking it up, she would complain about it. 

There was a woman named Bernice who moved into #17 my second year there. She was a “retired prostitute” as she put it. I literally have no problem with sex work, mind you, but I was called to her apartment about two months later because she had slept with someone and his heart had given out. Apparently this was where the older dudes went to have heart attacks after experiencing something too sexy to handle.

#09 was the last building. Located between #17 and the quasi-dimensional #01, it followed a similar pattern to the two of them. The side closer to the later was generally quiet and the latter was full of oddities. We had one rapid rehouse that was removed after a couple of months for chasing other tenants through the parking lots and throwing patio chairs off his balcony. He called me a kike at one point so I didn’t feel so bad about his eviction. The apartment underneath him, for most of the time I lived there, was occupied at an elderly lady who we never saw. One day, shortly after going on oxygen, she lit a cigarette and her existence was abruptly ended. Cleaning her apartment afterwards was a level of odd and terrifying. I kept finding hair. Everywhere. It never stopped. It seemed weird it survived the explosion, but it did. 

The apartment under her, later, caught on fire. They left a spatula in their oven and also called our office line instead of calling 911. For some reason they felt the need to push the smoking oven out into the hallway where it proceeded to burn away until I could extinguish it, while my mother evacuated the building. We also had a tax agent come every winter and stay to the summer, and she always stayed in the #09 building. She was meticulous. She slept in a sleeping bag. Never had any cookware. It was very strange. We never had to even clean her apartment because the only things in it were a phone, desk, and sleeping bag.

Oh, and there were twins in this building. They were kids. They were named Feloni and Misdermeaner. My mom worked at the closest school back then, but I didn’t, and Misdermeaner’s classroom roster was listed outside. 

Was there any other weird stuff that happened? Oh hell yes. I could write so much more. Like how it would rain on only specific parts of the complex and not others all the fucking time.

Oh, and the day I gave my 30 day notice, there was a double rainbow over my building. Which is a testament to the amount of bullshit I survived for four years. Nonstop, awful bullshit. That was mostly from management.

Like that I was expected to come back even after I was no longer employed there and vacuum and clean buildings. Like, you know, fucking load all that on a bus after walking a half mile with it and back. What.

AND I FEEL LIKE THIS POST IS LONG ENOUGH SO IF YOU WANT MORE STORIES ASK BUT I’M SHUTTING UP FOR NOW I WANT TO EAT DINNER.

[stuffminusthings]

Cooke City is a Nightmare.

There will come a point, Captain Throttlecock, when your lactic acid shocked forearms will unexpectedly shiver just a bit while hoisting a first drink at the Miner's Saloon in Cooke City, Fucking, Montana. Elevation's lack of oxygen makes this mistakenly feel like triumph, or manliness, or maybe just a little bit of your mojo that left when Becky did. Sure, you hit 12'o' clock summiting over Daisy Pass, and the only casualty you suffered was a pulled muscle from clenched butt cheeks. You've got so much track speed you can pow turn on roads. To top off the excitement, you drove your sled right to the front door of the god damn bar. Cooke City is a proving ground. You're here, but you're not conquering.

Swimming in a sea of Gore Tex, surfing on solar panels, silently swishing your way skyward to summits. Sweat summons success. Or so you think, you silly skier. Sure, soulfully stomping skin tracks from your sprinter-based living situation is serious, sorta. Social Media made you do it. The sledders same spasm happens while snapping a selfie of suffering in the Miner's Saloon.

That little twitch isn't a sign of success, rather it's the first way your body is telling you that it's time to go home, because Cooke City, Fucking, Montana, is fucking terrible.

It doesn't matter how you got here, you started making mistakes as soon as you entered the park, during the day time. Yellowstone National Park's primary four legged attraction is the bison. Thanks to roads crisscrossing their natural habitat, they seem limitless in the park. These enormous, lumbering beasts aren't dangerous because of their size, or their tendency to be on the roadways. They're dangerous because Iphones make it hard to steer while braking and brakes are applied often. It's nobody's fault, the earliest human graphic representations of anything are bison and buffalo. It's as human as sin to make a buffalo picture. So drive Yellowstone at night, when the bison take on an important property. They become nearly invisible, and therefore less likely to cause Eileen Jenson with a twitchy foot from Arkansas to suddenly slam on the brakes. Sure the shiny silver dollar eyed motherfuckers are more active at night, popping out of bushes en masse at close range in a horrifying stampede-styled Frogger game, but they're still less dangerous than Eileen and that eight-sled trailer isn't stopping any faster than the doobie-passing #vanlife 'rs when a rare “sleeping buffalo” shows up in range of the viewfinder.

There are two options for lodging in Cooke City, Fucking, Montana, and they only disappoint.

All those bloggers telling you to live in the dump are either already living in the dump, or have never stayed. For starters, you'll probably finding yourself waking up to Madonna's Greatest Hits every morning because a leather jacket wearing pirate is already camped there and doesn't care if your sprinter isn't soundproof. Only one-in-five pee spots in every sled trailer parking spot is human, the rest belonging to the free form pack of local dogs that all rip harder than you do. And it's a dump. And in the spring, there are bears.

But let's say that your 42-sled mega trailer from Calgary doesn't include sleeping accommodations so you and you're 44 other friends all rent out rooms at one of the many fine hotels. You'd be all set to live out your perfect Post Apocalyptic Snowmobile roll out into the great wild unknown would be perfect except for the fact that there is a group of twenty something dirt bags who managed to claw there way out of the dump partying in the parking lot making a mockery of every last grim look of determination you have while changing a belt out 45 minutes from now. They're crowded around an ever growing pile of empty booze bottles because they know something you don't.

The skiing or sledding in Cooke City, Fucking, Montana is either too dangerous, or already fucked.

When the snow is “good” it's impossible to find anything that hasn't been hit already by people that actually know what they're doing. If you're a sledder, some asshole skier is likely to drop in above your high-marks. If you're a skier, every single run out is carved up with sled tracks. No matter how serious you are, the leather-jacket-wearing miscreants living in the dump are doing it better, and waking up later.

You'd be able to tell if you could check your social media, but you pretty much need to be a pro to get the wifi passwords, and there's no service otherwise. Your best bet for entertainment is to watch confused vision questers with eyes glued to their GPSs buck their cars wildly on snowmobile ruts while attempting to drive to Red Lodge.

Which brings your twitchy, weak forearms to the Miner's Saloon where your hand-spun, reservoir-tipped crown of confusion really begins to shine.

The four girls at the left of the bar next to the jukebox will be the only women in the bar. They do all the things you wish girls in Owatonna, Minnesota do. And here they are, in your mecca. But here's the thing, they all know you're sitting there getting drunk enough to talk to them. It doesn't help that you've always dreamed of meeting a girl like this. To her, you're the exact same person who was here last week. If you were to stay here passed this coming Sunday you'd be forced to fight a carbon copy of yourself for the right to exist in the same universe. Sure your dad always wanted his ashes spread on Lulu pass, but the snow is starting to turn black, and quite frankly, you're glossy-eyed memories are sootier than your 2-stroke on the snowscape.

Go Home.

It's 10 Fucking Thirty and the bartender can't stand stand a 6'th hour of your big-group-plastic-cup-cheersing, bro-hugging, bad song playing bull shit. He can't serve anyone because he's too busy skipping the next song on a jukebox where metal music has already been removed. No, you can't stay, and no, Can I Kick It? did not just start playing inside of the doors you are being pushed out of.

Don't look up to see the stars bouncing light off the peaks where someone has already shot a time lapse and expect anything but a dizzy feeling, because even the stars in Cooke City, Fucking, Montana, are terrible.

[grosspizza]

shit she does!!!!!!

triggers my misophonia on a daily basis because eating with your mouth closed was a thing her mama never taught her

surprisingly her eating style is something i should be grateful for because i’ve seen her eat when she thinks no one’s watching it’s like a starving ravenous horse inhaling oats for the first time after the winter snow has melted

moves my stuff around in the bathroom every day when the easy solution would be to swap our stuff in the shower hanger but has never allowed a chance to open dialogue about it

doesn’t open dialogue on anything! at all! ever!!

i always feel terrible opening dialogue because i’ve known her to get her feelings hurt over the most innocuous shit imaginable and it’s so damn stressful like asking you to clean your fucking crumbs off the counter shouldn’t be like navigating an emotional minefield

apologizes to the point that it disgusts me to hear it

stop apologizing! buck up! grow some dude

over-talks??? like she adds in extra shit to her sentences and it’s like i get it! you think you’re smart! you think you’re refined! get to the point

okay so her damage is that she spent her formative teenage years in advanced college programs getting higher ed degrees and now that she’s like 23 she has nothing but her life in academia to show for it and while she knows some Very Advanced Historical Aspects of Europe she has zero collective common sense and interpersonal skills 

i tried to show her how to use my cappuccino machine a few times and she is on strike two of three strikes of never being allowed to touch it again (first time i was telling her how to clean the milk steamer and i said “okay now fold the cloth three times and then envelop it so you don’t burn yourself” and she used only one fold and fucking burned herself. i made sure she was okay, repeated myself, she said “okay” and goes and burns herself again the same fucking way!!!!!!!! like what the fuck dude!!!! second time i caught her tryna touch the steam with her bare fucking fingers to see if it was hot and i flatly told her to never fucking do that again. homegirl got NO SENSE of self-preservation and it WILL get her killed someday)

she never thought to sit down and look in her fucking owners manual for her car and I’ve had to walk her through shit multiple times

first three weeks she had her car she had been driving around with her high-beams on and even though she suspected as much she never looked into her manual to see if they were/how to turn them off and i had to do it for her while we were driving on the highway at night after the third car had flashed us

second time a few weeks ago her coolant cracked and she didn’t know where her fucking hazard lights were/that she was supposed to use them and i had to dig through her manual again to find them myself

one time i asked her to plug in my wireless charger while i was driving us up to minnesota in a rain storm and she plugged in my wireless charger and battery pack into one cohesive unit and when i told her it was wrong i think she pretended to have a migraine to so she didn’t have to own up to the fact that she didn’t know how to do something (and basically made me do it myself (while i was driving (and had been driving for five hours straight (when we had low visibility (because it was fucking raining))))

she has “”””migraines”””” an awful lot which i’ll allow are deeply debilitating and i don’t doubt she may have them but man she sure does get them at very convenient times

the problem with all these things is not that she’s stupid it’s the fact that she thinks so highly of herself/has constructed a persona where intelligence is her only redeeming attribute so she can’t ever come to terms with the fact that she doesn’t know something naturally and own up to it/recognize that she has a processing disorder and allow herself space to ask questions and show she misinterpreted something/can be deeply condescending just due to speech quirks which is insult to injury when you know she dumb sometimes 

plays the weirdest attention games sometimes where she shoves her problems in my face in such a way that forces me to ask about her current state of being 

jesus fuck she apologizes for everything

cannot be fucked to check and ask if i’m okay either due to sheer obliviousness or out of some misplaced fear of asking? it’d be nice if she showed she like, gave a shit sometimes, you know?

i’m basically the only one who makes dinner all the time and she has the balls to speak in condescending absolutes in regards to my cooking methods (fuji apples are cooking apples too!!!! if you wanted granny smith then you should have said something asshole!!! i’m not a fucking mindreader dude!!!!!! and there are many ways to do one specific thing!!!!! if you’re such a cooking authority then why don’t i see you doing it your goddamn self??)

seriously she has possibly made dinner like maybe three times? granted i don’t let her help if she’s in the house with me but that’s because she has to be moving constantly and i need to be given space and a directly defined path and we cannot coordinate cohesively within the kitchen together. but like. do something homegirl!

holy shit she never initiates a goddamn thing. she’s such a total pushover and i just want her to act like a normal fucking human being with wants and needs that she is vocal about and can take care of herself and doesn’t need to be asked if they’re okay every fucking day. i just don’t have the spoons to be her fucking parent and dictate her life all the time

no sense of personal space!!!!!!!!! none!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! don’t stand over me when i’m on the ground!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! don’t!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! don’t lean in like that!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! don’t make your weirdly violent hand gestures three inches from my face!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

she has incredibly long hair and i swear to god she must brush her hair out in my floor-sitting zone when she’s feeling passive-aggressive because i find her hairballs and 3 ft long strands  c o n s t a n t l y  which is the most gag-worthy shit imaginable 

occasionally she has these violent angry outbursts and it’s my least favorite quality about her that she lets her emotions get the best of her oooo actually no, i redact that. because i have a long-standing theory that she has a really fucked up hormonal imbalance issue which is the only reason that anyone would get that mad over a video game not going your way (she has violently thrown controllers on the ground and turned games off while screeching curses when enemies have healed themselves to full health. like.........it’s a video game. it aint real-life girl. get over it. anyway it’s the most triggering shit imaginable because it reminds me of dad and there’s never a good way to bring that business up) 

anyways that last one’s complicated because i recognize that i need to intervene and help her through that but how she does it is profoundly infuriating and terrifying & i don’t have the spoons to deal with it, but one time i told her that one of our ex-friends was terrible with emotions & couldn’t console people and there may be a massive chance i was projecting and i can’t let that come to fruition

apologizing!!!!! for shit that ain’t even her fault sometimes??????? just stop dude

i mean one time she did (rightly and appropriately) apologize for her raging out that was so bad i left the room and i (very manipulatively of me) asked her “what for” which she interpreted as me not having been slighted as opposed to me wanting her to vocalize and recognize what upset me instead of slapping an apology bandaid on the sitch and said “oh! well never mind then. good night!” like nothing had happened and i’m still mad i didn’t call her out on it

i’ve still had to walk her through ragefits/cryfests on a near-weekly basis over some of the smallest things

one time she had a full-on mental breakdown at our friend’s house from 11pm to 2am because she had some light spotting 

is wildly insistent on never getting psychological assistance for this shit and dialed back her breakdowns when i told her that i can’t keep being her crutch for this stuff and that we would have to find her a professional which just means that she’s finding other destructive coping methods and not vocalizing this stuff which is infuriating because under all this i do care about her wellbeing and like. i don’t know, she talks about killing herself an awful lot and i get that she’s miserable a lot of the time but she is oblivious to the fact that she can hurt people in a myriad of different ways and does so a regular basis and that’s one way it manifests

have i mentioned she apologizes for everything and is it annoying yet because good this is exactly how it feels to listen to her apologize over every goddamn thing

anyways this reeks of hypocrisy and personal problems but i’m not angry anymore so i’ll stop for the night