#but I digress and I am not about to spend the next 24 hours trying to calculate this kind of stuff! somebody else can do that for me XD

[anxiousapplepie]

Out of everyone in the roleswap AUs (including non-travellers), who would get out of the timeloop the fastest/slowest?

For the Travelers, T!Odile would be in the loops the longest and T!Bonnie would get out the fastest For the non travelers, however? *points to Housemaiden!Isabeau* He'd be in there the longest on account of needing to spend at least the first 50-70 loops processing all the emotions he's been refusing to address since the beginning of his journey And the winner for getting out of the timeloops in the shortest amount of time possible *points to Fighter!Siffrin* them!

[annakie]

Warning, pet illness and sadness within.  This is for me to pour out my emotions somewhere.

Friday, everything was fine.

Leela demanded pets all throughout the day, to the point where I had to ask her to quiet down a time or two while I was trying to work. She ran and jumped onto the counters in the kitchen and bathroom when I went, yelling at me to turn the water on so she could, and did, drink out of the faucets.  She demanded dinner at dinnertime, and a day or two before that, she asked for extra dinner when the bowl she and Pemily share most nights ran out.

When it was time for treats, she purred up a storm, excited, as always, for her treats.  She gets extras, she always does.  She starts with four before Pemily and Fry get any, and if she catches up to me while all three of them are getting their first five treats, round-robin, one at a time, I’ll usually give her two. She gobbled them up. 

Yesterday, I noted late in the day that she hadn’t run into the bathroom or kitchen with me during the day, but that’s OK, she doesn’t always.  But then she didn’t care about dinner, even though they were having the flaked tuna, which they all love.  Not long after, she puked, and it was all water.  Then, I started to worry.

She pooped right next to her bed... which she has done occasionally, but rarely.  She had puked earlier in the week, necessitating me to wash her bed, but that wasn’t extremely unusual.  But several non-hairball, non-food pukes later, I was very concerned.

Then she didn’t eat treats.

It wasn’t the first time she’s gone a day or so not wanting food, but got better after maybe a hairball or something.  So I decided to sleep in the living room, close enough that I could hear if anything went terribly wrong.  I tried moving her bed into the living room but she was having none of it, she only likes being in Her Spot on the desk in the office.  Right within arms reach of me all day while I work from home and all night when I game, scroll tumblr/twitter, chat... or whatever else.

I have loved always having her this close since in early 2018 I made what most people would use as their living room into my office and moved my huge desk from work into my house when they let us take the now-unwanted office furniture home.  Immediately after this desk was set up, she jumped into that spot... and just stayed.  She staked her territory.  I put a small blanket down for a day or two until that weekend when I went and got two more cat beds to supplement the one we already had.  Leela’s was the smallest, perfectly Leela-sized for the tiniest cat.  I’ve never seen her so expressively happy than the first time she got into it.  Purrs and biscuit making, and she has spent nearly all her non-eating/drinking/bodily function time right there in that bed ever since.  Occasionally she’d come hang with Fry, Pemily and I in the living room while we were watching TV, but rarely.

But anyway, I digress.

I woke up several times during the night and each time she was a little more listless.  I’d called the emergency vets near me and they said I could bring her in but it’d be several hours for her to wait unless it was critical, they’d gotten slammed and one had to do emergency surgery and was sending all the patients to the other one.  So I decided to wake up early and take her in.  I called ahead and they said they were not backed up anymore.

So Leela’s favorite blanket and Leela went into the carrier.  She was strong enough to put up a little fight and complain about it.  I told her I loved her and the doctor would make her feel better as we drove.  I hated that I couldn’t even take her to my vet, the vet she’d seen her entire life, but they’re closed Sundays and I knew waiting longer would be bad.

Due to COVID, they wouldn’t let me go inside with her.  Sensible.  I waited in the parking lot for an hour and a half as they took her in, called me to take her history, ask what’s wrong, and eventually the vet called, and asked permission to do labwork, and that I should go home if I was still in the parking lot.

I did.  I laid down with Fry and Pemily and tried not to worry.  An hour later they called and said her labwork looked bad.  Her kidneys are failing.  They want to admit her for 24 - 48 hours.  I held it together through the labwork results and the vet asking for permission.  A few minutes later they called back to get a deposit on the payment ($2000.... so grateful I haven’t been spending money for the last year, money isn’t yet an issue.) and then asked me the question I was dreading and not prepared to answer.  Do I want a DNR?

She’s sixteen.  She’s frail.  She’s already traumatized from all this, I’m sure.  Do I want them to take extreme measures to save her life?  My breath hitched as I said what I felt was the better answer -- No.  I lost it, barely making my way through the rest of the call.

Cried for the last couple of hours.  Just went to bed and sat there and sobbed, rehersing in my mind... what if they call and she died suddenly and I wasn’t there?  Am I sure I made the right decision?  What if she doesn’t get better and I have to make the call to put her to sleep?  Will they let me even be there then? 

She’s my Itty Bitty Leela Kitty.  She’s the one who will always take affection, who begs for it like no other to the point where I have to ask her to stop.  She cries for love.  She’s been a pain in the ass since day 1 because of bathroom issues, but I wouldn’t trade her for anything, especially since I figured out the compromise to keep us both happy with it.  She’s sweet, and just the cutest little thing.  She’s the bravest of all my cats, nothing phases her.  She’s fearless of strangers, accepting pets from all and sometimes even asking for them from those she doesn’t know.  She just wants to chill out in her bed and get loved on.  She’s great at telling time.  She weights less than 5 pounds and she’s 80% lungs. 

She’s bullied by Fry and Pemily but they’ll miss her too, and always respected that her bed is her space, and she’s allowed on countertops to eat and drink, too.  Just, you know, not on the floor.

I’d been thinking the last few weeks that one time when she WOULD have her once-daily run around the house and scream time, late morning when Fry and Pemily were settled in for daytime naps, I needed to record it because as annoying as it could be when I’m in work meetings, I knew someday I’d desperately want to hear it again.  And I never did, and now I’m terrified I will never hear it again. 

There’s nothing to do now but wait and hope.  I so badly want her to come home and have just a little more time.  Hear her mewl for attention.  Just a few more treat times.  Just a few more times to hear her yell at me to turn on the faucet for her to drink.  wrap her in my arms in her bed and listen to her breathe and kiss her head and tell her I love her.     I did that a lot last night but I should have done it more this morning.  And if it is her time, please just let me be there next to her as she goes.

[momentsuspended-intime]

Finding light in the darkness.

*Trigger warning* This post mentions suicide, overdosing, crisis team, alcohol, drug abuse, and other scenarios people may find triggering or offensive. Please proceed with caution.

Don’t be afraid of change, it is leading you to a new beginning. The pain you feel today will be the strength you feel tomorrow. Every day is a new beginning. Take a deep breath and start again.

Sitting in my living room, empty boxes of codeine surrounding me, this is it I thought, all the pain was going to end. Finally.

I texted my ex, I messaged my friends, all saying goodbye and how sorry I was for causing so much turmoil. I felt broken and defeated, I just wanted it all to stop. My head was racing, I just wanted all these thoughts to stop going round and round my head, was a little peace too much to ask for? Suddenly my Mum entered the room her face was pale. “What have you done?!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. All I could do was look at her and apologise, I had a momentary lapse where I hadn’t considered my next steps. One of my friends had messaged my Mum in a panic; my ex was on the phone, I could hear him crying but I just felt numb.

My Dad then raced into the room “Why would you do this, Victoria?” “Not my baby, please no” Those words will haunt me for the rest of my life. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen my Dad cry, but this was different. In that moment I thought “had I made a mistake?” but I still felt numb. Maybe it was the 60 codeine tablets I took or the adrenaline pumping through my body but all I felt was nothing. It had been like that for weeks now. This empty feeling inside me, like a black hole, sucking out every little piece of love and emotions I had. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was suffering with Borderline Personality Disorder, but I’ll get to that later.

Suddenly I was in the back of an ambulance, ECG hooked up to my body, and I’d spend hours in the hospital, being seen by different Doctors and Mental Health Nurses. My parents were pushing to having me committed. The hospital didn’t do anything; they sent me home and in less than 24 hours I’d be back in the hospital after a second failed attempt at taking my own life. 120 codeine tablets in total over 24 hours. Thank god I’m alive writing this now. I’m not a religious person but I must have someone looking down on me, keeping me safe.

You might be wondering how I got to this point, you see I’ve always known something wasn’t quite right, I could never put my finger on it but I never felt ‘normal’. Whatever normal is anyway. My head had always been a chaotic place for as long as I can remember, I always felt things so intensely, but that was normal right? I never knew any better. I would say goodbye to my ex after a lovely weekend together (he was in the RAF so I only got to see him on weekends) and I would have been crying hysterically, like he was being deployed for 6 months but in reality I’d be seeing him again in 5 days time. Minutes later in my car with music blaring I’d be singing and dancing along to the radio, like the previous few moments never happened. Something that would annoy the average person would make me fly into a fit of rage; my family described it as like walking on eggshells when they were around me. Too scared to say certain things out of fear of how I would react.

Anyway I’m digressing here, but the point is I always knew something wasn’t right with me. So what happened to make me feel so low? I had a week from hell. I’d been fired from my job by e-mail, basically told not to come in the following Monday. I was heartbroken, I was a photographer for a Cigar and Whiskey company, and I’d studied Photography at University. I could do that job in my sleep but that e-mail hit me like a tone of bricks. Later that week I would find out that my Nan had stage 5 terminal kidney disease and a couple days later my boyfriend of 3 and a half years would break my heart. It was traumatic, we’d spent 4 lovely days together and on the Sunday he woke up, looked at me and ended it. Just like that. I still remember the stabbing sensation in my stomach when I instantly knew something was wrong. An hour later I was driving 4 hours back from Buckinghamshire, crying my eyes out, reality had not yet set in and I couldn’t believe this was really happening. I still remember hearing Lizzo on the radio “If he don’t love you anymore, just walk yo’ fine ass out the door”. How ironic.

The day after my stint in the hospital I find myself sat in a room at the Crisis Centre on Northgate Street, waiting to be seen by a Psychiatrist and Mental Health Nurse to discuss what needs to be done. I’m angry, exhausted, confused and want anything but help. One of the Mental Health Nurses looks at me and says, “If you’re going to kill yourself, you’re going to do it anyway”. That was it, I went super saiyan, how dare he say that to me! These people are supposed to be here to help me, I know I didn’t want help at that point but how could someone in authority whose profession it is to support and care for those in a crisis say something so repulsive? That would be one of many unsavoury experiences I’d have with the Mental Health services.

After finally speaking to the manager (I promise I’m not a Karen), we all agreed that at home treatment would be best for my situation and me. Over the next few weeks I would be seen by the Crisis team every day. Every damn day I would have to explain in intricate detail what had happened and how we got to this point. You see with the Crisis team you don’t see the same person every day, they’re all on shifts, so each visit I would meet someone new and be expected to open up to a complete stranger about how I was feeling. When in a crisis a person needs consistency, the chance to build a rapport with someone and to feel like they’re being listened to. Not judged for being in the position I found myself in.

After many visits with a Psychiatrist and members of the Crisis team they came to a conclusion, I didn’t realise just how life changing this revelation would be. I had Borderline Personality Disorder. Suddenly everything fell into place; intense and unstable emotions? Check. Feeling empty and angry? Check. Impulsivity? Check. In total there’s 9 different symptoms for BPD (I’ll cover this in a future post), and I had all 9.

If you’re wondering what Borderline Personality Disorder is exactly then let me give you a brief outline, of course this is one of the most misunderstood and often stigmatised mental health issue a person can have. In simple terms BPD is a condition that affects how you think, feel and interact with other people. People with BPD experience a pervasive pattern of instability, both in the way they view themselves and with interpersonal relationships.

BPD isn’t a fad, it isn’t quirky, it can be soul destroying and it almost cost me my life. Experiencing a break up, losing a job and finding out a loved one is ill was just too much. Just one of those things can cause someone with BPD to lose control, they say things come in threes and for me it was true. To a ‘normal’ person a break up is hard, unless you’re lucky enough to part ways as friends, for me it felt like someone had died. That might sound dramatic but it was true, I didn’t realise but my ex was my FP (favourite person). People with BPD often have a FP, someone they rely on and put on a pedestal, and this person can do no wrong. My problem is my FP broke my heart.

Now don’t get me wrong I know it takes two to tango, I wasn’t a saint but in my defence I didn’t realise I was ill. I was moody, never wanted to spend time with his family, argued over every little thing and I wanted him all to myself. I didn’t realise it at the time but I was obsessed.

I spent the next two weeks at a friend’s house, drinking and getting high. My head was a mess, thoughts racing; I just wanted a moment of calm. I thought I was making myself feel better, trying to forget all the chaos going on in my life but I was just making everything worse. I wasn’t facing these problems head on, I was masking them and I didn’t realise it but things were about to erupt.

During this time I was a train wreck, I was drinking at every moment I could. Taking the dog out so I could nip to the shops and down a bottle or two of Lambrini in the park (how classy, right?). My problem was during this time drinking would make me disassociate; I’d become violent and angry. At one point I found myself in the back of a police van, but I’m not ready to talk about that yet.

I had reached rock bottom, my family stood by me, and god knows why- I gave them every opportunity to disown me and kick me out of the house but they never did and for that I am eternally grateful. I knew something had to change, I HAD to change. I couldn’t keep going on living like this, surly there’s more to life than this?

I decided I would quit drinking and get my life back on track. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but anything worth having in life isn’t. I decided to try and raise money for NSFT (Norfolk and Suffolk Foundation Trust), at this point I had been discharged by the Crisis team and I was now in the hands of NSFT. This is when I met Allison, my Mental Health Nurse and things finally started to change for the better.

I started cycling 30 miles every day, I reached over 500 miles but due to health reasons I had stop. It’s my aim to re-start my little goal and hopefully add to the £250 I’ve raised so far. I started engaging with NSFT; I had weekly meetings with my MH Nurse, Allison and went to Recovery College, learning ways to cope with my diagnosis and my recovery.

During this time I started feeling better, I was given a cocktail of medications such as antipsychotics and anti-depressants and slowly the real me was starting to come out.

2 years on I feel like a completely different person. I’ve rebuilt my relationship with my family; I’m one year sober and living in a beautiful new house. Treatment, medication and personal growth have changed me. Just yesterday my Sister was saying she could finally see the real me, the one that had always been there but just needed some nurturing (and treatment) to help shine through.

I’ve made many mistakes in life, I’m sure you’ll hear more about these in future posts but I decided I wanted to give back and use my experiences to help other people. You see I’ve always felt lost, like I never knew who I was as a person or what I wanted to do in life but I’ve finally found my calling. Last November I enrolled on a course and now I’m studying to become a Mental Health Nurse myself.

During my recovery I found that talking to someone who has lived experience of mental health issues utterly valuable. They understand you in a way no one else does, you have this shared connection. So I decided I wanted to take my lived experience, mistakes I’ve made, everything I’ve learnt over the past two years and try to help someone else that’s going through a Crisis.

I started volunteering at a Mental Health Charity called Together, working with the service users to offer them some support and it gave me a real taste of how it would be to work as a Mental Health Nurse and help someone who really needed it. Unfortunately lockdown hit and I had to stop volunteering.

I’m still working on my online course and hopefully by the end of the year I’ll be a Peer Support Worker and from there I’ll be able to join a course to specialise in Mental Health Nursing. For the first time in my life I have a plan.

What happened to that angry girl, who was moody all the time and argued over every little thing? I can say proudly that she no longer exists. Now I’m confident, happy and feel motivated to get as much out of life as possible. I’ve even started dating again! I’ll occasionally feel my mood flip quite quickly but I’m better at managing it now. Like any other illness you learn to live with it, this time though I’m not letting my diagnosis define me.

My relationship with my family has never been better, of course it’s not easy to forgive and there’s some things you can’t forget but my family have never held the things I’ve done against me. The past two years have been really tough but I’ve learnt a lot about myself as a person and the type of person I want to be. It hasn’t been easy writing this blog post, I wanted to give an honest and raw account of what it’s like to experience the darkest point of your life and what it’s like to rebuild from the ground up.

If you’re experiencing a hard time just know my inbox is always open, you’re not in this alone and I promise you things will get better.

Until next time.

Victoria Jane x

[feitclub]

6 - 22 - 2009

in honor of my son’s tenth birthday, here’s the blog entry I wrote on June 22, 2009 after returning from the hospital and collapsing.

If there's one thing movies and television shows have taught me, the birth of a child is the greatest day of a person's life. Sadly, it seems Hollywood is a habitual liar because I felt that the twenty-four hours I spent in a hospital waiting for my son to be born was one of the worst days of my life. Thankfully it all ended well. Mako shook me awake around 2:45AM on Sunday morning, clutching herself and saying "We need to go to the hospital." It would later turn out that she had been in pain for nearly two hours prior to that but she stuck it out and waited to see if it would pass. It never did, so we all threw on our clothes and drove to the hospital I was understandably excited, if a little drowsy. When we arrived I was quite surprised at the lack of initiative from the skeleton crew working the off-hours. Technically speaking, this hospital is "closed" on Sunday but they maintain a side entrance and a small reception desk during these periods. Mako called them before we left so when we arrived, they knew we were coming. That doesn't mean they did anything though. I distinctly remember one man walk past us, acknowledge our presence by simply saying "Ah, Feit-san. Go to the fifth floor." without breaking his stride. You would think a pregnant woman bent over in pain would warrant a wheelchair or some measure of physical assistance, but not here. The fifth floor was a little busier than the ground floor, probably because there's always something going on in the maternity ward. Newborns arrive when they arrive and both they and their mothers require 24-hour care. Still, despite the buzzing of nurses around us most of the lights were off on the floor, so we spent our initial wait in the dark. Eventually Mako got a bed in the "labor room" and we were told that despite the pain, Mako was only dilated three centimeters and she needed to be at ten centimeters before any serious attempt to give birth could be made. When we asked how long that might take, they said "a while." I must try to set the scene here by describing the labor room. There is only one room and all expectant mothers have to share it, apparently. I don't know how many beds were in the room but there was little more than a wall and a curtain to separate Mako's bed from the others. Mako was also located right next to the toilet and near the examination chair, so we were in a fairly high traffic section of a very small room. It was here that we had to wait...and wait...and wait... As noon approached and after repeated claims of "it'll be a bit longer" it was evident that while Mako needed to lie in bed and wait, we didn't all necessarily have to sit next to her until the baby arrived. Mako's mother stayed and encouraged me to go with my father-in-law back to the house and clean up. We were all exhausted, having woken up in the middle of night only to sit and wait for nine hours in the corner of the labor room, so the idea of a shower sounded pretty good. Mako's dad also suggested we have some lunch, which I thought might help me cope with all the stress but it didn't change much. That's how nervous I was: not even eating made me feel better. We went back to the house and I washed up. My father-in-law told me to try and take a nap which was virtually impossible. Despite all the waiting with no end in sight, I was still worried that the baby would arrive at any moment. I laid down and maybe nodded off for forty minutes or so, but I awoke sharply and scared that I had missed the birth. I hadn't, of course, but I wouldn't feel calm until I was back at the hospital and next to Mako. Hours and hours went by, and I spent all of them by Mako's side in the corner of this horrible, horrible room. I'm not going to point any fingers here, because I certainly don't have the intestinal fortitude to endure even a tenth of what a pregnant woman goes though, but everything in this labor room carried a horrible stench. The human body generates a lot of foul smelling byproducts and this room was where they all get discharged. The delivery room (when we finally got there) was even worse, but the labor room's odor and total lack of privacy was miserable. Adding insult to injury was that my only seat was a tiny stool with no back and nothing to lean against. Between Mako's bed, her I.V. and the table where we laid out her belongings, there was barely any space for any visitors to sit by the bed. Eventually I went out again with her father for another meal, but I again spent the entire time thinking only of her. It obviously can't compare to the physical pain a pregnant woman experiences, but to see my wife in such torturous agony all day while she waits and waits was really painful for me. However, the idea of not being with her felt even worse because we had decided together to try and have a baby. Wouldn't leaving her to have the baby without me be a betrayal of our mutual agreement? Speaking of which, one of the worst things about this shared labor room was overhearing all of the other patients. In the next bed over was a woman who had checked in some time before us. At first she was just sleeping but as the evening approached, she went into the delivery room which was within an audible distance. She shrieked and screamed and we eventually heard the baby's first cries. A little while later, a man showed up and was surprised when he found out the baby was already born. This was obviously the father and I never saw him visit her once that day. Where the fuck was this guy that he couldn't attend his own child's birth or even comfort his wife as she struggled? His failure as a father/husband reminded me why I needed to sit next to Mako and just ignore my back pain and exhaustion. Yes, I left twice to eat meals, but I never left her alone and on both occasions I came back within an hour. At no point was Mako without a member of her family on hand. As the sun went down, it occurred to me that Mako had just spent the entirety of the Summer Solstice indoors, waiting for this baby. After about seventeen hours, things started to look like the baby was coming. We were still in the labor room but as her dilation increased, Mako was encouraged to try pushing to speed up the process. While I had spent most of the day just sitting with Mako and occasionally massaging her, it was during these initial pushes that I actually had something important to do. Mako was standing up and hugging me, holding onto me for leverage and squeezing with all her might as she tried to push. It was crazy intense and while it would prove futile (and it hurt like hell), it was the undisputed highlight of Sunday because I felt like I mattered. This is as good a time as any to mention how little attention the hospital staff paid attention to me, which I found deeply insulting. Maybe it's just the culture of Japan to leave the husband out of the birth process, but as I spent my entire Sunday next to my wife trying to console her and assist in the delivery our child, you would think that at one point someone would just start talking to me about something, anything, to acknowledge my constant presence. Instead, I was spoken about but almost never spoken to. The bad news is, I'm pretty sure it was that old-fashioned Japanese racism at work. For those unfamiliar with Japanese racism, I should explain that it's not actually hateful as much as it's clueless and stupid. I'm sure none of the nurses or doctors felt anything was wrong with me, they just never thought to treat me like a human being. Instead, I was treated like a gaijin. They would ask my wife "where is your husband from?" and "does your husband speak Japanese?" instead of just asking me directly. When they needed our signatures on waivers, they would explain everything to her (while I listened) and then look at me and start stammering, mumbling to themselves "oh, how do I explain this since you cannot read?" Under the circumstances I let it all slide but inside I was pretty pissed. But I digress...around ten o'clock we finally entered the delivery room. Mako gave it her all but after spending her entire day in pain on a bed without eating (she had no appetite at all), she found herself unable to push the baby out. They put her through a variety of poses, which means they were trying their best but it felt like they didn't really know what to do. Eventually they said there was a "bump" (こぶ in Japanese) and the baby wasn't moving any closer to the exit. Just after one AM, Mako couldn't push anymore and asked them for a C-section. True story: in Japan they call it an "imperial cut" (帝王切開). They spent almost an hour prepping Mako for surgery and then took her away to the O.R. I was left in the dark (literally) to sit and wait to find out what was going to happen to my family. I was understandably upset by this turn of events. Was there nowhere else I could go? I knew the surgery was routine and carried relatively little risk but that couldn't stop me from worrying about what might happen on the operating table. Let's not forget that it was past two AM and I had been awake for nearly twenty-four straight hours, so I was already a little out of my mind. Being afraid that my wife or my son might not return from the O.R. was terror I didn't need. My son was the first to appear, shortly before three AM. I wanted to be excited and revel in the moment of seeing my first child in the flesh, but all I could think about was Mako who was still absent. I asked the nurse and all she could say was "they're closing her up." While that was meant as a reassurance, I couldn't put her out of mind even as I looked down at my very healthy brand-new baby boy. As you can guess, she eventually turned up, as did her parents who must have been up waiting for my messages. Mako was on a stretcher and couldn't sit up, but she was conscious and able to ask me if I saw the baby. I told I did and that made her smile. For all the hell the two of us had gone through (her more than me, of course), having a baby after nine months of anticipation was a wonderful feeling. I suppose if we were going to go with the surgery in the end we could have saved Mako a great many hours of discomfort by asking sooner, but we had hoped for a natural birth. Ah well, at least now my son can totally kill MacBeth: Tell thee, Feit was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd.

[shofie-ffxiv]

Ready Player One Review

This review contains no spoilers for the movie.

Apparently I never detailed the harrowing story of how Ready Player One made me sicker nearly than I’ve ever been in my life.

So my husband and I went to go see this movie on Friday. The only regular showing was at like 10:45PM and I was like, “No, fuck that, I don’t want to wait until almost 11PM to go see this movie.” So my husband informs me there’s an earlier showing, but “it’s in IMAX.” Okay, whatever, let’s just go. I’ve heard mixed reviews about this, and I��m not particularly thrilled to see it, but I’m also trying to keep an open mind and spend time with my spouse so I want to go see it because of that.

What he fails to tell me, and I don’t realize until a theater employee is shoving glasses at me, is that this will be a 3D showing of it. Yay. Now I wear glasses already, so I am not a big fan of seeing movies in 3D just because it’s annoying to have to wear two pairs of glasses, but I digress.

We get in, order our food and drinks and settle in for a few hours of 80's shit thrust into our faces.

The movie is kind of whatever to me, it’s not amazing, but it’s not actually bad either, but I notice my neck is kind of starting to feel stiff and weird. I try to crack it repeatedly, thinking that will help it go away. No.

It creeps up the back of my skull, and then my head is throbbing. The next thing I know, Art3mis is telling Parzival they have to dance and they’re doing a big disco scene mid-air and she’s swooping around him leaving light trails. The camera is absolutely not grounded anywhere and likes to swoop around while they’re also swooping around. It’s not a good time.

I start to feel sicker than I can recall ever feeling in a long time. I can’t stand to look at the screen anymore. Everytime I try, my head throbs painfully and I feel like I’m going to get sick. I’m full of overpriced nachos and soda, so this is exceptionally unappealing.

Eventually, I give up and just take the glasses off and cover my eyes (like hands clamped over to block out as much light as I can), because even flashes of light make it all hurt again. I don’t want to leave, because I know my husband is very excited to see this movie, so I spend literally half the movie hiding my face from the screen and just trying to piece together the plot from what I can hear. It was an interesting experience. I don’t honestly remember much of it.

When I got home, I had the overwhelming urge to sleep, so I did. I slept for a day straight, no joke. I had brief periods where I would wake up, talk to a friend about how awful I felt, then doze back off.

Ready Player One literally made me so sick I had to sleep for a solid 24 hours to cope.

My husband thinks it’s simulation sickness; a subset of motion sickness. I’ve never had something set it off so bad, and I’ve seen plenty of movies in IMAX and IMAX 3D.

So this is also a cautionary tale: If you think you might even be a LITTLE BIT sensitive to getting sick because of lots of swooping camera movements and bright colors and CGI, then probably avoid this one.

[valmaior-blog]

Asymptotically tending...

Saturday 13/07/2019. A momentous day. I took a shower! Showering in itself is not that unusual, I shower every month, whether I need it or not;-) This was a momentous day because it was my first shower in my as yet incomplete new bathroom, and by new, I mean new. New concrete floor, new drains, new plumbing, rebuilt walls, new floor and wall tiles, new toilet-bidet-sink, new mirror, new electrics, new ceiling, new doorway, new window, and incomplete because the last 4 items are not yet installed.

Funny thing about the bathroom mirror, it is of the “blue touch” type. It has a permanently illuminated blue circle – very useful at night, which can be touched to turn the built in lights on, or off and cycle through the lighting options. Made in China. On the box, it proclaimed blue tooth – silly Chinese. Obviously never heard of Blue Touch, so I assume it was an error and had been helpfully corrected by the packaging printers for the manufacturer, except that after it was installed, I discovered that my phone can connect to it and play music. (apologies China) Also, when the lights are on, a heating element demists the central part of the mirror. Neither of these functions were on my list of essential features for a mirror.

The main problem has been the size of the house – 188 square meters – over 2000 square feet, and apart from the kitchen, (and now the main bathroom) the ceilings are over 3.5 meters (12 feet) high. Actually, the real problem has been underestimating the amount of work required, overestimating my skill and ability, and working around the lack of specialised tools.

So, it is now 2020. Time for an update. Progress has been slow. It is 1 year and 11 months since we bought the house. My initial estimate of 2 months to make it habitable is just a vague memory. The deeper I dig, the more I find that needs fixing. The termite damage that I though was confined to skirting boards proved to be more extensive. In places all the wood has been destroyed leaving just the paint! The schist stone construction is great for plants and small animals. It is like a dry stone wall, but the inside spaces are packed with soil. Where I replace termite terminated wood, I use concrete if possible.

In October, I visited the local health centre. I needed a medical to apply for a Portuguese driving license. I had been registered there for 3 years, but this was my first visit. While I was there, I was interrogated about my medical history, got measured, got a flu jab in one arm, and a tetanus jab in the other. Gluteus maximus, was untroubled. I have no idea if this is now the norm, or another Portuguese idiosyncrasy. Passed the driving test bit with no problems, amazingly, my eyesight was classed as perfect, but blood pressure was ridiculously high, looks like I will be on medication for a while. I was sent for chest X-rays, blood tests, I wore a heart monitor for 24 hours, and later, a blood pressure sampler for 24 hours. That machine squeezed my left bicep every 20 minute during the day, then allegedly every 30 minutes at night, but I don’t know for sure, because it didn’t wake me up. On my last visit to the Doc, I was told that heart and lungs were fine. My blood test results went missing somewhere, so I had to go to the lab and get them printed again. Steamed open the envelope that I have to deliver to the doctor, and checked. Cholesterol 188?? I should be dead. Checked the units – seems that EU and US have a different set of units to those in the UK, so divide by 40ish gives 4.7. He lives – again!  Seems weird that the US uses the same metric units as the EU, but UK doesn’t.

The flu jab seems to have been a waste of time though. I was stuck down with a severe case of man flu over Christmas and New Year.

Only those who have lived through man flu can appreciate the heroic efforts I must have made to cook a full Christmas dinner, including Christmas pud. I didn’t get round to making mince pies until New Years day though. That did give the mincemeat a little extra maturing time – 800% extra.  

Highlights of 2019?

1) Transporting a new double bed and mattress and wife to the house completely inside a Fiat Punto – just the normal hatchback version, with all widows and doors closed!

2) Successfully gluing 8 pieces of broken granite counter top (kitchen worktop)  back into 1 piece. (there was no way I would have been able to match the colour)

Spanish windlass in action.

So, we now have a basic but working bedroom, and have stayed over a few nights, we have a fully functioning kitchen and bathroom, but still lots of very dusty jobs to do before we can take up residence.

I received my Portuguese “Carta de Condução” a few days before Christmas. It took just under 2 months to arrive, which is very fast compared to times reported by the expats in the Algarve. It does involve Portuguese IMT communicating with UK DVLA to cancel my UK licence before a Portuguese version can be issued.

This was something I had to do, for two reasons.

1) To legally hold a UK licence, I must have a UK address.

2) To legally drive in Portugal for longer than 3 months, I need either an EU licence which has to be registered with the Portuguese Authorities every 2 years, or a Portuguese licence.

As it was looking increasingly as though my UK EU licence would cease to be an EU licence, I jumped before I was pushed. Exchanging a non-EU licence for a Portuguese licence generally involves retaking a driving test, which is only conducted in Portuguese.

I also renewed my passport online at the same time, which was processed very quickly. Perhaps because I waited 1 month to send my old passport back. However, DHL failed to deliver it on 3 occasions. I guess the driver just looked at the street name and thought “I know where that is” and went to the wrong street in the wrong town. I used the house address for the passport, because I had no idea how long it would take. I had to use the apartment address for the driving licence, because that is my registered address at IMT.

During the height of summer, we were surrounded by forest fires – not close enough to be scary, and we are far enough from the trees to satisfy our insurance company. There are, I think, about 12 water bombing planes in Portugal, and 4 of them were doing circuits and dumps (anyone?) loudly over our house for a few days.

There were some local road and expressway closures, and when reopened, evidence of major conflagrations on both sides, but as far as I am aware, locally, damage was restricted to vegetation.

Portugal is an odd country in many ways. Soon after we moved into the apartment, we found that there was a LIDL closer to us that the store that we had been visiting. So, we made that our local. Cheddar cheese from there is acceptable quality, and half the price of cheddar from the supermarkets. Man cannot live without cheese on toast! Also, IMHO, their croissants are superior to those purchased from E. LeClerk or Auchan. Anyway, I digress. Travelling to and from LIDL, we used to often pass a woman who appeared to be living in a Ford Transit (or similar) she seemed to spend most of her time sitting in a camping chair watching the traffic. I guessed this was the result of a breakup or a death. She was a fairly ordinary middle age specimen, somewhat overweight, and not well dressed.

When we drove to the beach though, we would sometimes pass aged grannies sitting on plastics stools, presumably abandoned by their families, who considered them too doddery to trudge through the pine forest collecting cones, firewood, mushrooms and stuff. This seemed to be common. It wasn’t until we traveled further afield, along roads more used by truckers, that the ladies sitting at the sides of the roads became younger, more provocatively dressed, and all seemed to have orange skin, like Donald Trump, or like original James T. Kirk Star Trek aliens. Then the Euro cent dropped. Not sure about the grannies, however, we often pass an orange skinned granny, though it seems that she is only there when there is no competition. Holidays, Sundays – bad weather etc.

Pet Peeves.

1)Expressways!

There is not much wrong with the expressways as such, but the sliproads (on/off ramps) seem to have been added as an afterthought, or without any thought at all.

As an example, here are two junctions I use frequently.

The north/south expressway is the A1, the main (and only practical) route to drive between Lisbon and Porto. The east/west A25 expressway heads across the border, towards Madrid.

I approach this junction from the top right on a sharpish right hand bend, which prevents me from reaching a safe joining speed. The trees on my left prevent me from seeing approaching traffic, and the slip road is only 65m long, and even that requires use of the shoulder.

What makes it worse, is that 80m further on is the exit slip to join the A1 in both directions, so vehicles intending to take that route are unwilling to move into the adjacent lane to give joining traffic some space.

The next example is in the centre of Porto. Again, I approach from the top right. A 2 lane slip road, which becomes 1 lane. This section is always busy, that is at the time I use it. The slip road is from the A28 expressway which runs north from Porto, and I am joining the A1 again, which here forms part of the Porto inner ring. I have usually queued on the A28 for 20 minutes to get here. With bad timing, that can be much longer.

I am trying to match the speed of the traffic on the A1, while watching for cars merging from the right. The evil designers plan here, was to make this entry slip road also function as an exit slip road. So some vehicles on the A1 are slowing down to try to move onto the slip road, and other vehicles on the slip road have no intention of joining the A1, but are heading for the exit.

The final example is just stupidity. Again the A1. This pic has been rotated 90 degrees, so north is on the right. So, heading south on a 3 lane expressway, you arrive at a junction. Conventional exit, 3 lanes continue. Just before the southbound traffic from the junction tries to join, the 3 lanes are reduced to 2, then the joining traffic has to squeeze onto an expressway which is suddenly 50% busier, and drivers who found themselves suddenly without a lane are trying to settle into their new spot and not worrying about joining traffic. Sometimes vehicles unable to find a gap are forced off the expressway and onto the slip road. The problem is not the reduction to two lanes, but where the reduction is located.

Finally, the cost. Almost all expressways have tolls. The quickest route from apartment to house (according to google) incurs a cost of €3.1 That is €31 per week if we go there and back on 5 days, and that is in the cheapest car class. When I rented a van to collect the kitchen, I racked up tolls of almost €200 over a weekend.

Pet Peeve 2 – Import duties.

Before we moved to Portugal, I bought a UK registered Left hand drive Freelander, thinking that I could just switch the registration to Portuguese when I arrived. Yes I could, but I would have to pay taxes of €12000. Used cars incur the same tax as new cars. Portugal has been told by the EU that this is illegal, but refuses to change. The cost of cars in Portugal is astronomical, so old cars are still valuable and are still kept running. If Portugal was forced to change, the price of used cars would collapse. Imports of goods from outside the EU have severe problems getting through Portuguese customs. They are frequently held up for months and incur significant charges, such that many people just refuse to pay.

I have just informed our landlord that we will leave in 2 months time, so that is how long we have to get everything ready. When we move in, there will still be a lot to do. I have a plan to fix the sagging wall (see blog). I found a problem with the river that runs through it (see blog) the stream exits the house though a tunnel in the wall. One day after heavy rain the previous day, the stream was insignificant, but the water was deep in the tunnel. I had no idea where the water goes when it flows out of the building, the exit is below ground level. I poked the hole with a sharp stick, and hit fairly solid stuff. Another job for the to do list. A few days later, heavy rain again, I wandered out to inspect it. Our tarmac driveway is on the other side of the wall, and there, a spring had sprung. Water was bubbling up through the tarmac driveway. I dug down to the stream where it exited the tunnel, and the was no indication of any other route that the water could take. There is no immediately obvious solution to this problem, so a bout of pondering is required. Sump and pump would probably be the easiest. If the water is raised by 1m I could pipe it to a drain, but I would much rather have a non-electromechanical solution if one can be found. I would never trust my boat to an automatic bilge pump. Though the house won’t sink, it could be damaged if a pumping system fails to operate.

The house has no heating yet, although we do have 3 portable electric heaters, and 2 portable gas heaters. I am flip flopping over systems – burning wood or pellets, oil, LPG, air conditioners, heat pump, …

Underfloor heating is not an option, the house has a mix of solid and wooden floors. I realise that in itself would not preclude underfloor heating, but it would complicate installation.

Wall insulation is not an option. The house is externally tiled, the walls are 60cm thick (that’s 2ft in old money), there is no cavity, and internal insulation would require drastic remodeling.

Double glazing is not an option, it would not suit the house. All the windows are 2m high, and 1m wide. Our internal shutters should achieve the same goal, if they can be made to seal effectively. However we did survive winter living on the boat in Preston with no effective heating – any attempt at heating resulted in torrents of condensation. However, the internal temperature never went below +3.

The last two years have been intense. I didn’t realise what the effect had been on me until I compared two virtually identical before and after photographs of myself.

Before...

And after.

I have similar pics showing the effects on Ping, but I doubt I would survive the consequences of including them here.

One theoretical benefit of the location of the house is the proximity of the only ski resort in Portugal – 2 hours drive.  At virtually 2000m above sea level, snow should be guaranteed.

This is what it should look like.

And this is a live webcam feed.

We have only ventured up the mountain once – about 3 years ago, in late spring, and there was still deep snow in places sheltered from the sun.

I had marmalade on toast for breakfast this morning – homemade organic marmalade, made from homegrown oranges :-). Organic, because we have ignored the garden, not because I have strong pro-organics sentiment. This was just a trial run – our oranges are not traditional sevilles, much smaller and sweeter, I had to tweak the recipe – drastically reduced sugar, so just one test jar. Not quite Golden Shred, but better than acceptable. Not bad for my first attempt.

We have a local railway station - 2.6km from the house, but I could not find a timetable for the trains, because there are none. The route is interesting, because it follows the ground contours, even in the hilliest parts of the route. No deep straight cuttings, viaducts, bridges or embankments, though there are a couple of tunnels. It seems that a few years ago, some bad weather damaged part of the track, causing the company to impose a 30km/h speed limit. More bad weather dropped the speed limit to 10km/h, then to 0. The middle third of the line is closed, and that section includes our local station.

The eagle eyed amongst  you might notice a red light on the right of the picture. We have on 3 occasions seen a train on the closed section of track. I guess there is only one maintenance depot. The exceptionally eagle eyed might notice that the track looks a little odd. That is because it is meter guage, 1.0m width. Normal tracks are 1.435m. Consequently, our line does not join with the national network. Our trains don’t fit on normal tracks, and normal trains don’t fit on our tracks. I believe that the railway company is unwilling to spend much money on repairs, and unfortunately the trains are not pretty - 2 car diesel electric, decorated in unimpressive graffiti, bought used for not much money from an East European country (Poland?) that had no further use for them.

As the Portuguese crow flies, it is 40km between the two extremities of the line, both coastal, but the track does head inland, and meanders from village to village, so the track length is much greater, almost 100km.

We tried the train once, from Aveiro to Sernada do Vouga, a little over 1 hour an 18 stations, followed by a stroll through the hills and forest to the house, a lot over 1 hour. We went back to Aveiro by bus.

It is January here - like everywhere else. We have bunches of narcissus and lilies in flower.

Grass hasn’t stopped growing, the oak trees still have leaves, the peach trees have new buds. No time to rest.

[exquisitelyeco]

Bartemaus No 2!

You might have read my post a little while ago called ‘Bartemaus’ If you haven’t, you might want to before you read this. It will make more sense. In that post I talked about how Bartemaus did not care he had BEEN blind, he only cared he could now see. He left the past where it belonged, behind him. And after meeting Jesus, he never had anymore questions of ‘why’ he had been born blind. He did not care. All he cared about was that Jesus had SEEN him, and given him his sight. So what else is there to learn about Bart? A lot! He did a few things hardly any of those Jesus healed did. 1. He said Thankyou. 2. He believed Jesus was the son of God. 3. He worshipped Him. 4. He did not care what other people thought. So many of the people Jesus healed never thanked Him. Isn’t that like our society today? How many of us take without giving? Take without thanking? Take without THINKING. Believing that it is our right to HAVE. We live in a culture that has so much. We take most of it for granted. Good food, warm homes, nice clothes. Good education, yes I know you can argue the point on that one….. But we have. And it has not made us happier. We have so many devices, iPads, iPhones, headphones, Xbox, smart TV, SO many ways of communicating. And yet we are alone. Five people in a house, sitting together. All on their phones. Engaged elsewhere. We miss the present because we are scrolling down our phone. We don’t notice the sunsets. The birds crying in the air, the poppies red against the green meadows, we SEE nothing else but our own personal little device. And if we don’t have it? CALAMITY! No phone? No computer? Ahhhhh! And we get angry and frustrated. We don’t stop fuming until it’s fixed. But more than than that, we have a hissy fit UNTIL it’s fixed. ‘I can’t do without it!’ ‘How am I going to sort that out NOW?”For GODs sake!!!’ ‘That’s ALL I need!’ And we act like three year olds. Not grateful to HAVE a phone, but angry that for a few days we haven’t! In some ways, although we have all this technology, we are still as we were in the days of Bartemaus. Most of us get what we want, and without a backward glance go off. We don’t care about the person who fixed it. A quick ‘thanks,’ pennies on the counter and off. Do we even remember what the person looked like, if they were to cross our path, months later? The one who mended our device, just in case your wondering…….if you weren’t, well done…… In fact it’s worse. If the person sorting out our device is late, or it takes more time, we get angry and impatient. ‘I’m busy! I need it NOW!’ ‘What do you expect me to do, without my phone?!’ ‘That’s NOT good enough! You SAID Friday! It’s now Monday!’ And on we go. Moaning. Ranting. Complaining. And if it goes like that, the only Thankyou the person is lightly to get is a withering look and a VERY sarcastic Thankyou! Which actually can be interpreted as ‘NO Thankyou, you useless swine. I NEEDED my phone you look TOO long, and if I could I’d kick your arse to Glasgow!’ Unless you lived in a Glasgow. In which case it would be somewhere else….. So we might remember that person a tad longer…..just because they had pissed us off. But we most certainly would NOT be thankful. Neither would we go back! So we still think somebody else should get us out of our shit asap. And they don’t need thanking! What do they think we pay them FOR? Most of the people Jesus healed were like that. They didn’t care that the shops had shut, that Jesus hadn’t eaten, or that He was tired or busy. They hunted Him down and took what He offered. That is, they took the parts they wanted. Which were what they thought were the BEST, indeed only, ones. Things THEY wanted. Healing. Being made PHYSICALLY better. And that’s where it stopped, Thankyou very much….except they didn’t say that…..they just walked off.

At one point Jesus healed ten, TEN, lepers in one go. How many came back? How many said Thankyou? One. I mean come on. You’ve just been covered in a skin disease, where you had absolutely NO contact with anybody else AT ALL. You had to shout ‘UNCLEAN’ when ever anybody came anywhere near you! Your nose would drop off. Your fingers and toes. You’d smell of decay. A Job? Well, Teresa May could probably make you find one……no food, unless you begged. People might throw the odd copper at your head, cos they would never, ever come near you. You were outcast. Totally. No church going. No family near. No nothing. So you’d think that if you’d been healed of that, you’d at least say Thankyou. Nope. Just one. That’s one of the reasons Jesus said about people not understanding His miracles. Yes, He wanted people well. But He wanted more. He wanted them to SEE Him, for who He was! Master Healer. Son of God. But most were not interested. They just wanted black label day thanks. 24 hour flash sale! Jesus did His miracles, not just to make people well physically, but to make them well SPIRITUALLY. If they wanted it. But most didn’t. They did not see as far as their own nose…..if they still had one……if not then their ears…..don’t even go there……I KNOW what you were thinking…..what if they had no ears….. Jesus does not force Himself on us. He didn’t then and He doesn’t now. Even in Eden, God never forced the issue. Of course, He knew where Adam was hiding! But He wants us to want Him! And all most of us want is the ‘Wham bam, Thankyou ma’am.’ And we are off…. We don’t want to see the miracle MAKER, only have the miracle. Only a very few wanted more. Only a few wanted the MAN behind the miracles. And those who did, KNEW, He was not just a man. God wants us to find Him. How would we feel, or do we feel, when we want to spend time with our child and they keep putting us off, so they can do their Xbox. For days on end. We might get a mumbled thanks for dinner, which is eaten so quickly it’s worrying….. but that’s it. And that is what most of us do to God. To busy. ‘Talk to the hand’…….’Maybe next week, I’m busy today’…..’Got stuff to do’…..’Talk later’……and we get angry if we feel forced to spend anytime with God, unless WE WANT too.

We only want God when WE want Him. For what He can DO for us, not for WHO He is. And most of the time we forget to say Thankyou. In fact, we think it’s our right to have it our way. I do. I want God to do what I want. But spend time with Him? You are KIDDING! I tell no lie, I clock watch. I tell Him Ill give Him 15 minutes, and I begrudge Him even those. I get bored. Close my eyes, try to be holy. Think I’ve taken all the time up, open them and it’s only been two minutes…..and I don’t WANT to spend time with the miracle Maker. I only want His miracles. How rude. What if God got pissed off? What if Jesus had? But we do! God help the person who does not say Thankyou to us! If you are anything like me, you SEETHING tell them ‘You could say THANKYOU!!!’ Bartemaus was thankful. And He wanted MORE. Not just content with seeing physically, he wanted to see spiritually. WHO was behind this miracle, that had opened his eyes? Who had thought him important enough to help. And not passed by. How many, many people over the years had passed Barty by? In a hurry, banged into him, blamed him for getting in the way, rolled their eyes when he asked for coins? Worse! Looked down on him and blamed him for his being blind? Teresa….how ’bout you love? Sounding abit similar int’ it?😂 Yet Jesus did none of those things. He FOUND him. He healed Him. And to Bart that was EVERYTHING. He wanted more! Who was this man? He was hungry! He was not afraid of the order of the day. He knew Jesus has healed him. He didn’t yet know he was the son of God, outwardly, but in his heart, he knew full well. What did he say to the Pharisees? ‘I don’t know if he is a sinner, but I do know that God listens to those who respect Him!’ He KNEW God had heard the man Jesus, when He asked Him to heal His eyes. So when Jesus came and found him and said ‘Do you know who the son of man is?’ He said ‘Tell me, Lord, that I may believe in Him.’ And Jesus said, ‘It is I, who am talking with you now.’ Bartemaus fell on his knees and said ‘I believe Lord.’ He had found the miracle MAKER. And that was what he wanted. To show gratitude for the man who had healed him. To fall at His feet in worship and thankfulness.

I can imagine for the rest of his life Bartemaus followed Jesus. And was forever grateful. Because thankfulness is an attitude of the heart. It’s a way of living. Our culture does not teach it. It teaches us to take. Not to take TIME to find the person and say Thankyou. I have a hard heart. I can forget to say Thankyou. Even worse, I get angry if I think God doesn’t help quick enough….and if I think He is going to say no…..😡😡😡😡😡He really gets it. Tempers, stamping, cursing, the works. But I also know the importance of being thankful. Being thankful is different, VERY different from a quick, ‘thanks’ It’s when we stop. Stop. And take the TIME to say Thankyou, we feel a quietness in ourselves. Our spirit feels different. Mine does. It stops. No hurry. No rush. And as I say it, carefully, I see more and more things to say Thankyou for. When we really connect with a Thankyou to God, we find what Bartemaus did. He BELIEVED. He worshipped. Saying and BEING Thankyou brings us BEYOND what we have just had, and takes us to the Person God is. We draw close to Him. We want HIM, not for what He has given, but for WHO He is. It quiets our soul. And it helps us see who really IS our saviour, healer and redeemer. Who truly is the lover of our soul. Saying Thankyou is not a one off event. It’s a lifetime event. A way of living. Sorry, digression, actually, it’s NOT! Haha! I love it when a plan comes together….who said that?…The A team, wasn’t, it?….sorry, that bit WAS a digression…..I love Scrooge, have multiple different versions. The one that came to my mind just now was The Muppets Christmas Carol. When Michael Caine, who plays Scrooge, had seen the spirits of Christmas and learned to LIVE a Thankyou for what he SEES he has. He sings,

‘With a thankful heart, and with endless joy, with a growing family, every girl and boy, will be nephew and niece to me, bringing love joy and peace to me, and Everyday will start, with a grateful prayer and a thankful heart’ (Thankyou Muppets Christmas Carol, for your words here!) Do you SEE that? It’s FANTASTIC! Being thankful had allowed Scrooge to SEE that being thankful gave him FAMILY! That being grateful made life BIGGER. And He understood that being thankful is the KEY to living! That a thankful heart is an alive, pulsating, vibrating one! That Thankyou brings MORE. For him more than he ever dreamed. A relationship with his nephew, a new partner, another family, Bob Cratchets, and EVERYONE he spoke to saw the change in him! He grew BIGGER. He stopped being, small minded, greedy and petty, and started LIVING! When we live a life of Thankyou, EVERYTHING changes! It does not mean we become millionaires. It means we stop living negatively. We stop looking inward and down ward, and start looking UP ward. And by looking UP we see the source of the miracles! We SEE the Miracle Maker! Do you know, I think heaven stops when we praise God in thankfulness. I can imagine lights pulsating around the throne of God, the Glory of His Being, radiant. Being lit up by our thankfulness. Scrooge and Bartemaus saw how precious life was because they had learnt to be thankful. To be grateful. To know there was more than a one off thing. To realise it was an everyday, lifetime event. Every single day….As the song continues….’Stop and look around you, the glory that you see, is born each day, don’t let it slip away, how precious life can be……'(‘gain, Thankyou Muppets! Great words, great words!) we are BLIND to life, because we don’t open our eyes! We take it for granted, but don’t even notice it!

Scrooge had been WOKEN UP! His heart was now wide awake! He could see life each day because he now had a THANKFUL heart! He was now ACTIVELY LOOKING FOR and LIVING a Thankyou! How many of us are asleep? Lost in the troubles of the world. Not praising God? Forgetting too, too tired? Unhappy and disconnected? We need to feed our spirit everyday. And we do this by having a thankful heart. We live a LIFE of thanks! It a habit we must practise. King David, when troubles hit, he took time out and he ‘strengthened himself in the Lord (See book of Samuel or Kings in the bible) he KNEW the VITALNESS yup, new word…..Good ain’t it?, of thanks! It is VITAL to our life, especially in these times! The more thankful you are the more you SEE! The more you bring Glory to God. Because the more you see, the more you want to say Thankyou! Life is so precious, so fragile. We hold it with such contempt. But it is SO PRECIOUS. Every tiny thing. A blade of grass. Have you looked at one lately? A ladybird? It’s beautiful! And the more we LIVE Thankyou, the more we draw people to us. They hunger for what we have! A thankful spirit is an illuminated spirit! It is SO attractive! That is why God is SO irresistible! We realise we are family, and not just family, HIS family! and it MATTERS. In fact, that’s ALL that matters. Because when you have the MAKER you have EVERYTHING! And everything you need has to come from that place. A thankful heart. That is when we start truly living. So I want to learn from Barty. I want to learn to say Thankyou. And to live it.

[johnbazley]

My Favorite Albums of 2018

xxx

Honorable mention: Bruce Springsteen - Springsteen on Broadway

This one is tricky to place on a list; it’s not technically an album, though it’s not technically a film, and since I watched it on Netflix/listened to it on Apple Music, I can’t really call it a show I attended, either. Still, as a long-time Springsteen fan from the suburbs of New Jersey where the Boss cut his teeth, this performance floored me. Essentially a performed, abridged version of his 2017 memoir Born To Run, cut with songs from his fifty-year career, Springsteen on Broadway finds Bruce Springsteen examining the threads of his life, trying to make sense of them, and deconstructing the legendary persona he has spent his career constructing. The result is the reframing of many of his biggest and greatest songs. If you are at all interested in the craft of creative non-fiction or Bruce Springsteen music, Springsteen On Broadway is a must-see.

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30. Pale Waves - My Mind Makes Noises

This album reminds me a lot of The 1975’s first record, which I adore. It’s catchy as hell, and it’s my favorite pure pop record of the year. It’s too long and samey—I skip around a lot when I listen now, and there’s probably a fantastic ten-track album within these fourteen songs—but there are some real hits on here. I spent enough much time on the subway this year trying not to bop my head to “Eighteen” that I’d feel wrong not including it here.

29. J. Cole - KOD

I haven’t loved the past few J Cole albums, but I have fond memories of listening to Sideline Story as I rode around Monmouth County, New Jersey in the passenger seat of my friend Kevin’s car the summer after got his driver’s license. I think of those summer nights whenever J. Cole announces a new album, so I always listen to them, no matter how much I disliked the previous one. KOD surprised me because for the first time since Sideline Story, I felt like I had something to chew on and unpack when I read the record’s lyrics. There’s a statement made here about the consumption of black art by while people, and while it is certainly up for debate how effectively that statement is made—I can’t help but feel like substance users are thrown under the bus at times—I do think Cole has finally released a record with a thesis statement. Hopefully his next one has features!

28. Earl Sweatshirt - Some Rap Songs

Admittedly, this album might be much higher if it had released earlier in the year. There is a strong case to be made that Earl Sweatshirt is the greatest rapper alive, and that Some Rap Songs is his best album—I just didn’t spend a whole lot of time with it this year.

Despite that: I love the mixing on this record, how everything sounds obscured, like a recording of a recording. Earl, much like his old Odd Future cohorts Tyler, The Creator and Frank Ocean, has gotten much better at what he does since the collective dissolved a few years ago, and his lyricism is better than ever. There’s a trend toward immediacy in hip-hop at the moment as streaming numbers increasingly play a larger role in the business end of things. Some Rap Songs feels like the only album in the genre released this year that was designed with long-term consumption in mind. I can’t imagine this album will leave my rotation any time soon.

27. Deafheaven - Ordinary Corrupt Human Love

I’ve always been kind of a fair-weather Deafheaven fan. I listen to the new albums when they drop and appreciate them for what they are, but I’m not enough of a metal fan to spend much time with them after that honeymoon period ends. I come back to Sunbather fairly regularly, but mostly because it reminds me of the summer when it gets cold out. 

Ordinary Corrupt Human Love is the first Deafheaven album I’ve fallen for. It’s the first Deafheaven album I recommended to my friends in the group chat who don’t care for metal music at all. Sunbather, and to a lesser extent, New Bermuda showed that there’s plenty of room for experimentation within the black metal genre, but Ordinary Corrupt Human Love blows the whole thing up. I love a subversive record, and while I didn’t spend as much time with this album as I did with other records on this list, I spent a lot of time thinking about it.

26. mewithoutYou - [untitled] LP

All I can say for this record is that it scratched an itch. It’s been a while since I’ve been truly invested in the Will Yip-produced Run For Cover emo scene, but this record reminded me of those heydays with the Citizens and the Balance & Composures and the whathaveyous. I don’t think it’s Yip’s best produced album, and I don’t think it’s mewithoutYou’s best album, but “Julia” worked its way into my head quite often this fall, like an old friend I hadn’t heard from in a few years, coming home to visit.

25. Noname - Room 25

Noname is just so good at this shit. After Acid Rap, I hoped she’d release a mixtape. She did, and Telefone was one of the best albums of that summer--a pivotal summer of my life, the summer we got Blonde, Coloring Book, Puberty 2, and Atrocity Exhibition, no less. Room 25 is even better, and proves that Noname is here to stay.  

I put “Ace” on a playlist called “better by fall” in October. That playlist was full of mellow songs that calmed me down, that also had BPMs high enough to put a spring in my step and get me my out of my apartment when I didn’t feel like leaving my bed. It was my happy place when all of the shit started hitting every fan a few weeks into the fall semester. I think I’ll remember this fall much in the way that I remember the summer Telefone dropped--a lot of darkness, a lot of growth, but mostly a lot of good songs.

24. Basement - Beside Myself

I feel like so few rock bands today are concerned with structure and songwriting like Basement are on Beside Myself. This record reminds me a lot of early 2000s Jimmy Eat World output, which is mostly because of how the guitars sound, but I think that comparison really comes together in the strength of the choruses and the way the songs build and release. Each song is built like a brick house. I’ve always kind of doubted that this band would ever be able to top 2012’s Colourmeinkindness, and while I still prefer that record to this one, this one is a nice addition to a discography that gets better with each new release.

23. Vince Staples - FM!

Something I’ve been thinking about a lot this year is home. I moved from New York City back to New Jersey in large part because I felt like I needed it--2018 was the year that I accepted that this place made me the person I am, and that I should embrace it. I wrote a lot about this state and my community here.

FM! resonated with me because it felt like Vince Staples doing the same. I liked Big Fish Theory, but I didn’t return to it much after release, largely because it found Vince abandoning much of the Long Beach, California-centric lyrical content that made me love Summertime ‘06 so much. I think there’s a potency to an artist writing about the good and bad of their hometown, and I love FM! because Vince does it well, in a stylish wrapping that feels more like a meaningful concept record than Big Fish ever did, despite what critics said about that album.

22. Janelle Monáe - Dirty Computer

I remember walking around Grand Central trying to catch a train the day after Dirty Computer dropped this spring, listening through the album in full for the first time as I raced through corridors and took my seat, and thinking as “Americans” came to a close, “oh, yes, this is the best album of the year.” It just seemed like a fact at that point that no one could possibly top the beauty of Dirty Computer, which consists entirely of very catchy songs that construct a larger statement piece about queerness, blackness, and womanhood. And while it may be true that Dirty Computer is the best album of the year, I have not listened to it in full since, mostly because I got very distracted with schoolwork and other music in the weeks following its release. However, that listening experience was my most memorable of the year, and this is the only record on this list that I’ve only listened to once. I think that counts for a lot.

21. Alkaline Trio - Is This Thing Cursed?

Earlier this year, I drove 20 hours round-trip to Maine and back to visit a friend in Bangor. I spent most of those twenty hours listening to old Alkaline Trio records, as I’ll do from time to time when I feel nostalgic for my middle school years. I think spending so many hours with Good Mourning and From Here To Infirmary this summer prepped me to love Is This Thing Cursed?, which feels like it could have been released right before Crimson. 

If you haven't already been in on Alkaline Trio, Is This Thing Cursed? probably won’t change your mind (though you might like the last record, My Shame Is True, which is more “““mature””” and less spooky, but I digress), but it’s a solid addition to a great discography from a band I’ve loved since Tony Hawk’s Underground came out.

20. Saba - Care For Me

Care For Me is the best rap album that no one talked about this year. The first time I heard “PROM / KING,” I figured Saba would blow up in 2018 the way that Kendrick Lamar did after good kid, mAAd city. That didn’t happen, but I still think Saba is bound for stardom.

19. Hop Along - Bark Your Head Off, Dog

I didn’t stick with this album as much as I thought I would when I first heard “How Simple”--I think a lot of my adoration for this album actually zeroes in on that song, actually--but we had a nice summer fling.

18. The 1975 - A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships

This album is probably my biggest disappointment of 2018. So much of it doesn’t work for me. I wish I could cut out every terrible, self-indulgent lyric like “Kids don’t want rifles, / kids want Supreme” and “I found a gray hair in one of my zoots, / like context in a modern debate, I just took it out.” “The Man Who Married A Robot” had to have been written by a man who thinks he has something profound to say about how humans are affected by technology, but has also never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey. Matty Healy apologized for his ridiculous and offensive comments in The Fader about misogyny in rock music and hip-hop, but I can’t return to “Love It If We Made It” after Matty essentially said “hey actually I don’t know what I’m talking about, sorry y’all” with regard to its lyrical content. I think Healy is essentially rewriting Drake’s career, coming so close to genuine profundity at every turn and constantly falling victim to his own inflated ego.

Still, I adore the minute-to-minute songwriting on this record so much that I can ignore its many failed attempts at crafting a larger statement. “I Like America and America Likes Me” is so good that I don’t mind skipping “The Man Who Married Robot” when it’s over. “It’s Not Living If It’s Not With You” is exactly the type of song that seems effortless to The 1975, but no one else has quite cracked yet.

17. Mitski - Be The Cowboy

Be The Cowboy is probably my least favorite of Mitski’s records. This one didn’t blow my mind the way that Puberty 2 did, and I don’t think it’s as timeless as Bury Me At Makeout Creek, but it’s still a god damn good Mitski album. “Old Friend” makes my heart skips beats.

16. Foxing - Nearer My God

I don’t really remember this album coming out. The only thing I remember about the first time I listened to it was that I was falling asleep on the subway, constantly restarting it from track one and dozing off again before that song ended.  

15. Courtney Barnett - Tell Me How You Really Feel

I’ve always felt like I should like Courtney Barnett more, and it all clicked into place for me on this record. I love the vocal melodies and how they play with Courtney’s guitar work. It’s also a very enjoyable listen from start to finish, and when it first released, it was my go-to walk-around-my-neighborhood-and-think-about-life album.

14. boygenius - boygenius

This release is such a dream come true that it almost feels wrong—how could two of the best active songwriters today start a band together? And how does that band live up to every expectation? How did Julien Baker and Phoebe Bridgers come through with their best songs ever for their supergroup? This is the EP that shouldn’t exist because we don’t deserve nice things.

13. The HIRS Collective - Friends. Lovers. Favorites.

This is the album you’re all sleeping on. The best hardcore album of 2018 and among the best of the past five years. For fans of scary, heavy music with lyrics about trans and queer liberation. Read this and listen.

12. Brian Fallon - Sleepwalkers

Sleepwalkers is exactly where I wanted Brian Fallon to go after Painkillers. I know so many Gaslight Anthem fans who want Fallon to write the same song over and over--and I love that song, to be fair--but Fallon’s songwriting is most interesting to me when he’s branching out and experimenting with new songs. I think that’s why I’ve always loved Get Hurt, and it’s certainly why I love Sleepwalkers. The British invasion sound that Fallon plays with here fits like a glove, and the slowed-down Manilow-esque “Etta James” is the best song he’s written in at least four years. I feel like Fallon’s next album will be a bit more typical, as the cycle of Fallon records tends to go, but Sleepwalkers stands out and I hope Brian Fallon never stops writing songs.

11. Jeff Rosenstock - POST-

I think there’s a fantastic seven-track album within POST-. I don’t care much for the long songs here, because I don’t think longer song structures are well-suited to Jeff Rosenstock’s frenetic style, so when I listened to POST- this year, I most often started with “Yr Throat” and turned it off once “9/10″ was over. I’ve included it so high on my list because I think that seven-track album is perfect. It’s frustrating how good those songs are. The thing about Jeff Rosenstock is that he writes so many songs (this is the first of two appearances he’ll make in my top eleven of 2018) that I can forgive the clunkers, especially when they’re so nicely bookended at the beginning and end of an album. 

The fact that the larger “rock” audience hasn’t caught on to the fact that Rosenstock is one of the best songwriters alive and releases multiple records each year is confounding. WORRY. remains one of the best rock albums of the decade, and POST- is a perfectly good follow-up.

10. Now, Now - Saved

Now, Now’s turn with Saved reminds me so much of the recent Paramore trajectory. It seemed for a while that the previous album would be the last. When the island-pop follow-up with a new lineup was announced, I feared that everything I’d previously loved about the band was gone. Then the album came out, and I fell head over heels for it.

I listened to Saved a lot on my roof this summer as I stole time and watched the sun set between my two jobs. I often had a few free hours here or there, and I spent so many of those hours listening to “Window” or “AZ” as I sipped a beer and watched the planes land in Queens. 

I don’t remember much of this year--so much of it blends together in a way that, honestly, concerns me. But the nights I spent with “Saved” blend together as well, and if I look back at my summer in 2018 and only remember getting drunk as the sky turned pink in Brooklyn with “SGL” in my headphones, I’m cool with it.

9. Ruston Kelly - Dying Star

I’m not usually in the business of recommending country albums, so you know this one must be good. 

Dying Star does so much by the books. “Mockingbird” could be a radio hit. “Cover My Tracks” features a main melody that I swear I’ve heard in a Ryan Adams song before. It all works, mind--it works so well that the subversive moments all land even harder. 

Maybe I’m just out of touch with the genre, but I have never heard a song like “Son Of A Highway Daughter” before. I didn’t know country artists were allowed to pull a “Hide and Seek” and hide the instruments behind several minutes of vocoder vocals. If this has been going on longer than Ruston Kelly’s tenure in writing songs, please send those albums to me. 

I love interesting music, and Dying Star is the most interesting country album I’ve heard since Taylor Swift’s Red (will not be answering messages debating Red’s existence as a country album, thank you). 

8. Pusha T - DAYTONA

I spent most of the early parts of 2018 angry at Kanye West. As the “Santeria” beat unfolded from the speakers of my 2003 Ford Escape, stuck in stand-still traffic in Staten Island, mere weeks before its transition would fail and leave me stranded in an AMC Theaters parking lot, I had a single, fleeting moment of shit, what am I going to do if this Kanye album is good?

Luckily, that feeling faded before I crossed the bridge into Jersey. But there are elements to Pusha T’s greatest record, DAYTONA, that prove that Kanye hadn’t lost quite all of his marbles when he conducted these beats and dreamed up the concept of the all-killer-no-filler, seven-track hip-hop album. Every second of this album is good. Because it has so few keystone moments, every moment is memorable. In that sense, listening to DAYTONA reminds me a lot of listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run. Springsteen conducted that album so each side of the LP would start and end with one of the record’s best songs. Therefore, each moment of picking up the record and flipping it results in some thought of “damn, that was good and I am truly enjoying this LP.” I feel like DAYTONA is structured similarly, albeit with the lens for the streaming generation. Pusha gets in and out of verses effortlessly here, and each track opens and closes in a memorable way. Before you have time to get bored, the record is over and repeating and you're ready to hear it again.

It will likely be another several years before another Pusha T record, so it will be interesting to see how this one’s short length holds up as the thirst grows. But for the time being, part of me wishes every album was so dedicated to trimming the fat and delivering the goods only.

7. Travis Scott - Astroworld

I’ve never been wrong about a rapper like I was wrong about Travis Scott in 2014. I wrote Travis off when “Mamacita” dropped because he came across to me as a Yeezus impressionist who wanted desperately to be Young Thug. In 2018, Young Thug hasn’t had the hit I’ve always assumed was around the corner, and Kanye is a hack. 

I can only imagine hearing a song like “Sicko Mode” in high school. The way that song, and so much of Astroworld, effortlessly hops between movements, weaving in and out of movements and codas as if that’s ever been allowed in pop music--Travis Scott really did something here. It’s like he traded all of the corniness for genuine insight into the mechanics of hip-hop music, and in the process released of the genre’s standout albums in a post-DS2 world. Sometimes, it’s good to be wrong.

6. Staten - I don’t want to be alone anymore

I always laugh when Justin puts out a new song because he’s so god damn good at this. Unsigned artists shouldn’t be able to make pop music that sounds this solid, this well-produced. Find me another local musician who’s making pop music on the level of “Saturn” or “Loy’s Son.”

There are a ridiculous amount of good Staten albums, and I don’t want to be alone anymore is one of my favorites. Do yourself a favor and spend some time on Justin’s bandcamp page.

5. Antarctigo Vespucci - Love In The Time Of E-Mail

Love In The Time Of E-Mail is my favorite Chris Farren full-length. I love the grit that Jeff Rosenstock brings to Farren’s otherwise glossy songwriting style, and I love how Chris’ lyrics straddle the line because funny and heartfelt, often in the same song. I think my single favorite moment from a song this year is the bridge of “Breathless on DVD,” where Farren sings: “Am I unhappy because I’m not free, / or not free because I’m unhappy? / I wanted to see you / to see if I still wanted to see you.” “Breathless On DVD” is the kind of song that makes you wonder how some emo band didn’t already write this whole album a decade ago. It instantly meshes with the canon of albums I’ve spent my life with, and fits like a glove. I hope I never wear this one out.

4. The Wonder Years - Sister Cities

I wrote a bit about this album in a personal essay for Substream earlier this year, but to elaborate a bit: The Wonder Years have a habit of releasing life-affecting albums right when I feel like I need one. The Upsides and Suburbia I’ve Given You All And Now I’m Nothing came into my life a few months after I ended my first real relationship and started to wonder why I had spent so much of my life up to that point consumed by my own inexplicable sadness. The Greatest Generation came out a month shy of my high school graduation and I spent a lot of time that summer delivering pizza, dreading the day I’d have to leave my friends to move into a dorm room and meet new ones, listening to The Wonder Years and wondering if this is what it feels like with my wings clipped, I’m awkward and nervous, I’m awkward and nervous.

Sister Cities is an album about boundaries and the bodies of water that separate us and how traveling the planet makes us feel more distant and more connected to the people who pass through our lives for however long. I split my time between New York and New Jersey this summer, working a handful of jobs across both states, trying to pay my rent without the help of student loans and putting a little bit of scratch aside in case I needed to get out in the next few months for whatever reason. Around this time, I also began to process how upset I was about the death of my Aunt Mary, who passed away during my first week of graduate school, whose funeral was the first of a handful I had to miss due to geographical limitations and work obligations. I slept on New Jersey Transit a lot those weekends, and I listened to this album on repeat as I dozed off, as my train passed over bridges and into tunnels, until I woke up and walked off into a different home from where I started.

I think there’s a shift here—Dan Campbell is no longer belting out war cries like “I’m not sad anymore, I’m just tired of this place” or “I’m gonna shoulder the weight till my back breaks, / I want to run till my lungs give up.” It’s a quieter, more personal record that wrangles with quieter, more personal subject matter than previous Wonder Years releases. That resonated with me this year, and while I’m not sure how much I’ll return to Sister Cities compared to The Greatest Generation or even The Upsides in the future, I will not forget the time we spent together in 2018.

3. Spanish Love Songs - Schmaltz

Schmatlz was my most played album of 2018—I think that counts for something. Like if The Menzingers incorporated Bomb The Music Industry’s synthesizer lines, Spanish Love Songs make the most fun denim-clad Americana punk I’ve ever heard. I love every song on this album. I wore it out this year, and then I played it some more. I hear so often from my friends in the punk scene that there aren’t enough new bands making good punk music—this band is doing exactly that, friends.

I think Schmaltz, more than any other album on this list, will be the one that will forever remind me of my time living in Brooklyn. I spent countless nights last year walking home from my local neighborhood bar, Aunt Ginny’s, drunk, anxious, spinning as I avoided traffic and worried about homework I hadn’t done yet and mouthing the words to “Beer & NyQuil” and “Buffalo Buffalo” with Schmaltz in my headphones. It’s a cathartic record that made me feel considerably less alone in a year where my loneliness was more pervasive than ever. It’s a time and a place, but that time and that place weren’t so bad.

2. Jake Newcomb - Yosemite

When I was in my last year of high school, Jake Newcomb was in a pop-punk/emo band called Cross Town Train. Cross Town Train had a song called “Red Floral Dress,” and I can still remember the first time I heard it, in a friend’s house where we all hung out after school. “Red Floral Dress” was Cross Town Train’s best song, I think, the one that the crowd always went crazy for. I heard it hundreds of times that year, most of which I spent at local shows with friends and drunk in basements. I still consider it my favorite song of all time.

I loved and continue to love “Red Floral Dress” because it was the first time I can remember one of my friends creating a piece of art that felt not only impressive from a craft perspective, but truly important. It was cathartic. I was very confused about feelings of love toward everyone that year—my friends, my romantic interests, my hometown, my family—and that moment at the end of the bridge: “I’d been anticipating this for weeks,/because I don’t know how I feel about you—/and then I saw you, and then I saw you, and then I saw you,” sounded so obvious to me. Of course there is an answer here. There is an answer, an answer that Jake Newcomb has figured out, and it will come for you in time.

I have been thinking about “Red Floral Dress” a lot lately because Jake Newcomb released a new album this year. Yosemite is a nine-track album, the first full-length album that Jake wrote and released on his own. I love the vocal melodies and I love how beautiful the acoustic arrangement sounds, but the reason I resonated so quickly with the record is because of how obvious it all seems. Lyrically, the record follows the story of a relationship from beginning to end. Each of its tracks address peripheral factors that put stress on a new relationship. “Sparky” was inspired by the death of Jake’s childhood dog, which coincided with the relationship. “Warped Tour” and “Cross Town Train” consider shared experience and lack thereof between the singer and his partner. Several tracks, like the standout “Little Things,” explore lowercase-p-political themes, like how poverty, the perceived inability to provide for a significant other, and the ever-present fear of climate change damage the ability to see a potential relationship as something that could possibly last in the long-term. In the closing title track, Newcomb croons without judgment about the passage of time: “It’s been a long time / since I loved you / like I used to.”

Yosemite sounds so clear to me—much in the way that “Red Floral Dress” sounded like an obvious answer to my teenage anxiety, Yosemite sounds wise and experienced, vulnerable, and relatable. The album artwork reflects my feelings best—a landscape full of trees, cliffs, fog, dirt, a layered image of a valley that goes on for miles that simultaneously seems so clear, beautiful, and obvious.

1. The Story So Far - Proper Dose

There is so much that I love about this record. I love the production, how it paints frontman Parker Cannon’s voice in a manner that show off his technical chops while retaining so much of the timbre of scorn that gave The Story So Far rise in the punk scene in the first place. I love the committed dive into acoustic tones and slowed down BPMs, both songwriting elements that TSSF have been flirting with since “Placeholder,” but entirely nail with “Upside Down.” I love how surprising these songs are—how the the “save my soul” refrain emerges from the ashes of a 90-second punk banger at the end of “Need To Know;” how the slurred, auto-tuned vocal line in “Growing On You” worms its way out of the bassy “Line” interlude, giving both tracks a sense of linked significance. 

All that aside, Proper Dose is my favorite album of 2018 because of its urgency and importance. Its structure and content remind me of Tyler, The Creator’s Flower Boy, which was my favorite album of 2017. On that record, Tyler tells a story while wrangling with questions he doesn’t yet have answers to. Once he has confronted the central knot on “Garden Shed,” rapping as quickly as he can to put his admission of confusion out into the world before he has the ability to stop himself—“that was real love I was in / ain’t no reason to pretend”—the narrative begins to accelerate, rushing in as many disparate directions as possible in rapid succession. The rambling “Boredom” jams up against the erratic “I Ain’t Got Time!” before the split “911/Mr. Lonely” directly confronts that the narrator is lonely and depressed, but will keep on dancing to throw ‘em off. The b-side’s lack of cohesion is its cohesion, as a meta-narrative emerges—Tyler is racing to the end of a record, hoping to find the answers to his questions there, as if all endings inherently offer serendipitous and logical conclusions. 

I think Proper Dose is structured similarly, albeit with significant differences. The lyrics to Proper Dose are primarily concerned with Cannon’s struggle with addiction to xanax and prescription cough syrup, and the arc finds the narrator reaching for answers. It’s here where the whole record comes together for me. Yes, “Need To Know” culminates in a surprising refrain, but that refrain is as inevitable is it could possibly be—when Cannon’s frustration and desperate admissions of internal struggle reach their ends, the only logical move is a shift and a direct address: Save my soul. That slurred vocal effect in “Growing On You” works so well because he sounds depleted, and by track ten, Cannon has already effectively shown the extent to which his addiction has left him exhausted. “Not as simple as I wanted it to be,” he sings slowly, as if the words are being pulled out of him, as if doing so is the only way to reach some type of conclusion. “Now I gotta say all of the things that are bothering me.”

All of this is to say that I have written a lot this year, and I still have more trouble than I’d like to admit writing about the knots that tie me up inside. An advisor of mine once told me that writing toward hardship and trauma is like holding a beach ball underwater: it gets harder the deeper one goes. If you let go, the ball returns to the surface, and you must start the work over of returning to previous depths. 

I think Proper Dose would be The Story So Far’s best album even with its lyrics—urgency and importance—removed entirely. The vocal melodies here have improved dramatically over 2015’s self-titled effort, and for the first time, the songwriting sounds as though the band prioritized the listening experience over the crowd-going experience for their live shows. But it’s that leap of faith, that urgency and importance, that excavation of one’s own hardship, that makes it resonate so deeply with me.

[loveunexpected365]

Day Forty Five

#SingleOnValentinesDay

I guess it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t speak about Valentine’s Day, a day dedicated to love, on my blog where I seek to find love in everyday. Even though it wouldn’t be right, I still contemplated this post, because I’m not in a relationship. Since I’m single, clearly, I’m supposed to hate Valentine’s Day and spend it eating myself into a chocolate coma🍫. Or drinking obsessively. But I don’t drink, so I guess that’s not the way to go 🍷. And although I’d love to eat chocolate all day, I don’t actually spend the day loathing or depressed. My experience on Valentine’s Day truly varies from year to year and can or cannot be shaped by those I chose to spend it with. I’ve had great days while I’m single and horrible ones when was in a relationship, so I can’t necessarily say that having a relationship guarantees or equates to me having great Valentine’s Day. But that’s just me.

From my experience, like most things or holidays lately, Valentine’s Day seems to come with an immense amount of external pressure. This is pressure to display your “perfect” relationship and/or love for one another on social media as well as the gifts from your significant other. If it’s not Facebook official or approved, it’s not real.

So what does that mean for the single people like me? I guess that means I’m not supposed to or expected to enjoy my Valentine’s Day, because at the end of the day I have no one to post on my Instagram ☹️. Or it means I can only enjoy Valentine’s Day if I have a celebration with all my single girlfriends, trying to make myself not feel sad for being single. Sure, that must be how it goes…

Well I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but that’s not how it went down, at all! Overall, I had a good day and felt an immense amount of love from my friends and family. After all, it is a day dedicated to embracing and acknowledging all types of love, not just romantic, so that’s exactly what I did. As I’ve been doing for the last 44 days, and will continue to do, I found unexpected love in Valentine’s Day as a single woman. Granted, I find love this way everyday - but it seems necessary to explicitly state it here and now. But I digress - I am able to do so for two reasons: (1) because I chose to find love in everyday; (2) because my actions aren’t defined by relationship status - let alone a man. So if you ask me how I deal with Valentine’s Day when I single? I deal with it in the same way I do everyday - another 24 hours in my life. And as such, I can either waste it or make it the best 24 hours of my life 🤗! So like all the other days of the year, single or not, I’m going to make it about me, my dreams, desires, and the love I know I deserve ❤️!

P.S. - Happy Birthday to my Mommy 🎂😊🎉!

Shoutout to Bae for giving me the time, space, and much needed ambiance to create this post 😘!

Oh, and message to my future husband 🤵🏾👰🏾. I apologize in advance for all the money you’re gonna spend on flowers to make up for all the guys who never made me feel special on Valentine’s Day. But just know, you won and it will all be worth it in the end 😉😘😏😜!

Let’s see where love takes me next 💕!

[katyjustso]

It is my first post of the year so I shall begin with the obligatory…

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Yes, it’s the fucking 19th alright?

New Year, New Me.

Except it’s less an Emphatic Statement of Intent and more a Bewildered Question.

New Year, New Me…?

Erm….perhaps next year.

Listen, you’re going to have to excuse me for a minute because I’ve reached that age (and weight) where I can no longer blithely dismiss sudden chest pain as ‘just trapped wind’ and it feels like someone just dropped a breeze-block on my sternum.  I better go and investigate.  I’ll be back (I hope).

Yup.  Just a massive fart.  Yet more of the anxiety wind which is currently blowing through my life. Anxiety, you say? This early on in the year? Even with the kids safely installed back at school?

Well, yes.

Sadly, I haven’t had the kick-ass start to the year I was dreaming about.  More a massive kick you UP the ass kind of start to the year that I could not have anticipated in a billion years.

The wank start to 2017 comes hot on the heels of a fairly dog-shit end to 2016 which left me uncharacteristically desperate for the festivities to end and gagging for the 1st of January.

I use the term dog-shit advisedly (believe it or not) because that’s what our festive period felt like tbh.  Like, if Christmas 2016 was a spanking new pair of white Nike Tn’s, then I spent the majority of it trying to scrape off a steaming turd only to find I’d walked through it again.

But, much like a shit-covered shoe, our Christmas troubles were mere trifles; annoying inconveniences which rather threatened to spoil everything than actually doing so.

The main culprit was sickness and disease.  Having swerved such things at Christmas for the last 16 years or so, I guess we were due a turn.  But it’s always crap when your kids are poorly and it’s even crapper at Christmas.

A particular highlight (for me, not him) was Thom’s impeccable sick-etiquette on Christmas morning.  Not wanting to spoil the splendour of the occasion, Thom repeatedly asked to be accompanied to the kitchen between opening his own gifts so he could chuck up what was left of his little guts.  Bless.

Although between MTV’s Bangin’ Bassline Christmas Hits (absolutely no fucking sign of Bing Crosby at alll) blaring out of the TV and the frenzied ripping of wrapping paper by his siblings, his bile-only retching would doubtless have gone unnoticed.

The real highlight of my Christmas morning is still telling the kids not to worry about dropping all the wrapping paper on the floor cos we don’t live with your anti-mess freak father anymore.

The smug satisfaction I still get from saying this after five years is quite shameful but in my defence, as a single mum at Christmas you’ll take any little win you can get.

I might have to chalk it up as a loss though, cos it’s one thing to let the kids open presents without following them around the room brandishing a carrier bag for the rubbish but when you use it as an excuse to leave the room strewn with wrapping paper and ribbon for about 10 days, you start to look less care-free and more lazy bastard.

So yeah.  The ‘Noro-Virus’ did the rounds over Christmas.  Noro-Virus sounds more sympathy evoking than 24hr bug. Also, I don’t think 24 hours carries sufficient gravitas when you’re 8 and the 24 hours in question starts at 11pm on Christmas Eve  and lasts right the way through your Christmas dinner.

And, whilst I felt dreadfully sorry for Thom and his khaki coloured sick, my Christmas Eve wasn’t exactly all wine and wassail.  Well, it wasn’t wine cos, recovering alcoholic obvs, so yeah that bit of Christmas has gone out of the window.  But as is my Christmas custom, I still had about 80% of the wrapping to do once the little ones finally lost consciousness.

But no sooner had I rolled up my sleeves and attached my snazzy new ‘On-hand Sellotape dispenser” than I was interrupted by Thom’s tired and tremulous crying.  Actually, to my shame (just add it to the fucking list shall we?), I sent the teen upstairs the first time I heard him crying and that was only after there was a break in the carols I had blaring out from the TV.  The teen has even less patience than me, if that is even possible, so when he came downstairs after fifteen seconds armed with the considered conclusion that Thom was ‘over-excited’, I took him at his word and carried on with my frantic wrapping.

By 8am Christmas morning, there was a pile of presents under the tree that might as well have been wrapped by an 18 month old.  I was so tired with darting up and down stairs to hold back Thom’s hair (oh, hang on, I don’t do that with him do I – so why does he need me?) as he was sick every half an hour that I’d barely bothered to hide all the tape and left over bows.  Not that anyone noticed.

Boxing Day saw the girl fall foul of the wretched bug and the day after that had me dashing between bathroom and bedroom all day.

*Sigh*

God.

With all this festive digression, I have quite forgotten the subject of my post.  Which is a relief actually, cos it’s fucking painful to think about.

The reason I have entitled this post The Moving Memoirs #1 is not because I believe these posts will be moving in any emotional sense.  Whatsoever. They will be filled with a shit load of whingeing and bitching about various stuff going on but this is not a sympathy seeking exercise. I can’t be arsed. No, I shan’t be moving anyone to tears.

For you eagle-eyed readers, the #1 is not accidental.  The thread of this blog will probably take at least three months to exhaust itself and so I may manage to write a few more posts.  That’s not a threat, nor am I making any promises.  I am struggling to write at the moment.  I am struggling to do most things.  Functioning is at an all-time low.

So. Not trying to ‘move’ anybody emotionally and it might be a three month long series.  Dunt take a genius to work out that the moving in question is a house move and I shall be blogging about this for the foreseeable future.

I have moved house before but in the five years that we’ve lived where we live now, so much has changed, and I fear this move is going to be pretty different to any I’ve done before.

So. I remember seeing something on Pinterest once – like a ‘countdown to moving day’ list or something like that.  I must have read it cos I sort of remember it saying shit like this:

Three months before you move

Begin to compile a list of removal companies you could use

Make an inventory of each room

Invest in some ‘packing boxes’ and begin to label them by room

One month before you move

Inform the relevant phone and cable TV companies of your impending move

Start wrapping your breakables in newspaper

The day before you move

Make sure you have left the kettle and other essentials out for your last day

Have your gas and electric meters read (my mother just told me this…seriously I have no idea about this shit.)

The day of the move

Get up early

Blah

Blah

Fucking blah

  Right.  You get the picture.

Here is how my list thus far with my confident predictions for the next few months:

Three months before (eviction notice served)

Spend 36 hours in a stunned stupor because you can’t believe your home will no longer be your actual home in ninety days

Say ‘fuck’. A lot

Cry

Hide under a duvet

Desperately call parents and incomprehensibly wail about impending homelessness

Two months before

Still say fuck. A lot.  Also shit, wanker, twat and bastard.  For example:

(a) “What the fuck are we actually going to do though?”

(b) “You tell me where we’re going to fucking live then you stupid fucking twat.”

(c) “What sort of wanker calls that a third fucking bedroom?”

And so on.

More crying

Spend excessive amounts of time on sofa whilst permanently hiding under a blanket that now hasn’t been washed for six weeks and is covered in tears, snot, chocolate and crumbs

Eat everything you see that is in the sugar/carbs group

Stop cleaning the house in a kind of half-assed protest over being evicted

Continue to barrage those close to you with totally inappropriate over-emotional calls about your ‘desperate’ predicament

One week before

Resign yourself to fact that you are absolutely fucked and you’re going to end up moving you and your three children into your mother’s house

Start hurling random things in Morrison’s carrier bags whilst telling everyone how you’ve ‘nearly finished packing’

Panic and start throwing away things you need simply cos you don’t know what box to put them in. Seriously, do tea-lights go in the box marked kitchen or living room? You fucking tell me.

Order a massive skip that you can’t afford whilst kidding yourself (but actually nobody else) that THIS time you mean it when you say you are going to de-clutter. Then spend two of the three days you’ve hired it for watching inconspicuous members of the public (seriously, they may as well put on a comedy moustache and glasses) surreptitiously chucking all manner of shit into YOUR skip because THEY’RE too fucking tight to hire one themselves.

On the evening before the skip is due to be collected, gaze in wonder and horror at how little space there is left to put your own mountain of crap into now the skip-jackers have filled it.

Try to remedy this problem by shifting all the contraband crap to one corner of the skip.

Stumble upon at least four priceless pieces of other people’s crap you can’t believe has been thrown away and now you can’t possibly live without. Like, we could be talking about a fucking lava lamp or a scabby nest of tables that you just know you could upcycle with that tin of Annie Sloane pain that has been gathering dust in your garage for the last three years.  Y’know, ever since you abandoned upcycling that old book shelf you had and ordered a brand spanking new one off ov Very instead.

Seriously, you are genuinely thinking how unbelievable it is what people will throw away as you cradle your new free treasures (one man’s trash etc..) and take them into your already shit laden abode.  At this point, it is fair to say that the balance of your mind is clearly disturbed because the child’s manky old bicycle you’ve picked up has only got one wheel and is clearly for a four year old.  Your youngest child is 8.

  OK.  I’m majorly rambling now but are you getting the diabolical picture?

Moving house is a great big pile of shitty turd.  Moving house is something you don’t want to do even when you do want to do it.  As in, when you’ve chosen to move out, onwards and upwards in your life.

But when your only reason for moving is a big fat eviction notice that couldn’t have been any less expected if it had parachuted through the letter-box and kicked you in the fanny, well, the prospect of moving is bloody, fucking, shitting, bastard horrible.

So.  There you go.

My blogging raison d’etre for the next ninety days – give or take.

If the last fortnight is anything to go by there will be tears, tantrums and possibly some hilarious moments – like when I tell my kids that two of them are going to have to share a bedroom (jokes. It’ll obviously be me hunkering down on the sofa until one of the little bleeders moves out).

Arm yourself.

It ain’t gonna be pretty.

The Moving Memoirs #1 It is my first post of the year so I shall begin with the obligatory… New Year, New Me.

[adventures-in-transmania]

This doesn’t have anything to do with being trans. This has everything to do with living in a goddamned trailer park for my entire life.

I don’t remember much from my childhood. I remember helping out with home repair by getting tools/supplies. I remember being 10+ and worrying about how we’re going to fix something, how we’re going to afford to fix something. I remember being anxious about hearing water leaking, about hearing my parent cuss under their breath and worrying what it was now. At 23, I still have anxiety revolving around my parent cussing under their breath because it did and still does quickly turn into them yelling. It wasn’t usually *at* me, but it could easily turn to me if they were irritated enough, which I understand now. I didn’t at the time.

I remember my worst day. I worked at a coffee shop, oftentimes for long hours with usually no breaks. At the time, I was a shift leader. I had little experience with managerial stuff, but knew my way around the other areas, one of the reasons they made me a shift leader. I digress, though (kind of, context after all). At the time, we didn’t have a car, but I don’t recall why. We also didn’t have hot water. Our hot water tank had broken a while ago and I had been taking showers for college on the college campus in the fitness center. It was awful. It had been 8-10 months at the time that we didn’t have hot water. It was frustrating because we had the new water heater but couldn’t get rid of the old one to install the new one. Neither of us were strong enough to pull the old one out.

So, no car, no hot water. I biked to work at 3am to get there by 5 am. I worked a 12 hour shift, no break, no manager on duty (it was Sunday), and I had to figure out price/ad changes on my goddamned own. I had to do things that weren’t part of my job (so, same as usual, jfc). Then I had to bike home. I got about half way, and I remember to this day, that I came really fucking close to just giving up on everything. I broke down crying but somehow I made it home (thanks Ayden). I probably had to be back at work at 5am. I don’t think I ever told anyone, considering it was the middle of summer, so of course I wasn’t in contact with anyone from college, nor was I close enough to anyone to talk to them about it. It’s also not something you broadcast. Even when I was in school, talking to people every day, I didn’t tell them we didn’t have hot water, I didn’t tell them I was showering on campus in the middle of winter when it was too cold to shower at home.

Anyway, 11 months (almost an entire year of not having a hot water tank), we finally got it installed. There have been several instances where we had to turn the water completely off (of course not for 11 months). It got so bad that my parent put a turn-off valve on anything they could, so if the kitchen sink was fucked up, we could turn those faucets off without turning the rest off. We had issues with the toilet seal a while back but we got it fixed within a month. It was hell, lemme tell you (especially with the parent yelling to high hell impressive swears), but we survived. Context I want you to get from this is that I am super fucking sensitive when it comes to the sound of water spraying/leaking against plywood and I am super fucking anxious when it comes to water leaks or anything regarding water leaks when it comes to this place.

SO. Last Thursday, after a shitty day for the parent, they come home and our sewage line is acting up. They try to fix it the same way I did about four hours before. They break the seal on our toilet. We’ve been having issues with backup in the bathroom sink, the shower drain, and the kitchen sink. Not a surprise, I guess, but still a pain the dick. So begins the long fucking week of finding creative ways to get rid of sewage.

They’re so frustrated and tired that they’re at the point “it doesn’t matter.” Of course, I know better. It may not matter today, but it will tomorrow, especially when it comes to our elderly grandmother who has the most inconvenient timing for literally everything. So, I resort to prior experience. I go into problem-solving mode, which works for a day and a half. They still have to deal with some difficult stuff while we try to fix it. Obviously, we’re at the point where this is getting fucking ridiculous to deal with. I realize that I make enough (or could, if I work a certain number of hours a week that I could potentially do) to get us out, so I start looking for an apartment. They get hope that we can get out, so they start looking, too. We’ve lived here for 23+ years, a mobile home that is clearly past its prime and I am able to get rid of it, so we’re looking into that, but it’s not instantaneous, so we’re fixing what we can to live here while we look, right. So, it’s a week long process of effort, money (that could be put into a new apartment), and stress into fixing a problem in the short-term (as long as it lasts a few months, we’ll be fine). As long as we have a working toilet for the next 1-3 months, right?

So, we get the PVC, we get the couplings, we get what we need to fix it. We end up fucking it up, fixing it again, fucking it up, fixing it again. WE FIX IT. 5-6 trips to Home Depot, another 2-3 to a local hardware store. Meanwhile, I’m spending my days off dealing with this. I’ve already been stressed to the point of almost breaking down in front of several supervisors (”do you feel better?” “I hope you feel better than you look.”). I’d had several breakdowns prior to this, based primarily on work. But, yeah, I had the capacity to deal with this, too. It was the first time I asked to leave early from work in the 5 years of working. So, I was looking forward to having A SINGLE FUCKING DAY OFF, right?

Yeah, no. I get not a single day off. I have to say, college was fucking tiring. I worked 20-35 hours on top of college, right? When our manager when out, I was there to cover a lot of her shifts. I didn’t complain because she couldn’t help it. I was able to do it, I guess. It was hard, but it was nothing compared to what I’ve had to do. I stayed up some nights. It wasn’t an issue, I don’t know why. Apparently class wasn’t as difficult as I thought it was? That was a break compared to “real life.”

I have my job now. I have a hard time not sleeping between jobs. I have a hard time not sleeping for 24 hours. I have a hard time having jobs for 18-24 hours straight. Perhaps it’s more physically demanding? I think I’ve reached a new low and I don’t know what to do. I’m so tired, I’m fucking exhausted and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t think there is a ‘fix.’ Sleep doesn’t help. Even when I get decent sleep, I’m still miserable. In the last 2-3 weeks, I’ve reached an all-time low several times.

I broke down for some reason about 3 weeks ago. I want to blame it on being tired, being exhausted. I talked to someone about stepping down from a position of responsibility, someone I thought I’d disappoint that it turned out I wouldn’t. It was a long day, I guess, a lot of energy drinks, a lot of emotions. I was vulnerable. I had a great breakdown. It was my breaking point, but I had to keep going.

Work kept me responsible. What I mean by that is, I had a shift that I was expected to know what I was doing, then was expected to know what I was doing at the next shift (”just ask Riley, they know all about this account”) on top of being sensory overloaded and having people on top of me and it being warm and the account itself being tedious. It didn’t help, I was supposed to be back there again the next morning. It was just a tiring day all around and to have there be scheduling changes...Anxiety was a thing.

The next day brought a store that I guess was my ‘break.’ I didn’t really have to be responsible for anything, but I didn’t really think of it as such, given that there were 3 people scheduled and it was a travel store. The next store after that (a store I thought I’d get a nap for, that I didn’t) I knew I’d have hella responsibility for, give that I was granted an email about what responsibility I’d have. I broke down during that store and asked to leave early, knowing I had two stores the next day. It was the first time I asked to leave early in my entire career. I cried the entire way home and texted a friend to come see them instead of going home. I wasn’t okay. It wasn’t the worst day I had, but a very close second.

The next morning, these same assholes decided “hm, he left early because he couldn’t handle shit the night before” then put me on to lead a flow the next fucking morning. I legit thought the people saying “yep, you’re flow lead,” were joking because of the night before. I almost cried right then and there. I just wanted to count. Especially when another lead came by and changed the game plan entirely. It was due to my area manager being highly understanding that I stayed. That same day, I had another shift that they put me as flow lead. It was hard to fuck up, but it was still tiring, emotionally draining, considering the morning I had.

Basically since the one day, the day I ran Tops (6-12) I haven’t really had a day off, that RGIS hasn’t decided training was necessary, or that life hasn’t fucked me completely over. I’m fucking exhausted. I have no support system and I’m exhausted.

[giantpower87-blog]

Bathhouse Drunks

Bathhouse Drunks

Most guys go to the baths to get laid or to socialize. Many go to make that connection, I had written about previously. There are a segment of guys who go to the baths because they are the loneliest people on the planet. These are truly lost souls. And believe me there are many, as I am one of them. Not victims mind you, but guys who are damaged goods. Which isn’t surprising considering the cards we are dealt with by society. But I digress, as I will get to my issues a bit later.

The feeling of loneliness is why you see so many guys looking for empty sex, as if that will fill up that emptiness inside of them. Some turn to sex, others turn to drugs and sex, which I wrote about in Drug Use At The Baths. Some don’t do drugs but just sex and booze. Empty sex, drug use and alcohol abuse. Don’t all good things come in threes? Some just go straight for the liquor, not really caring whoever is around. It is the bottle that is their object of affection.

For me I don’t drink, smoke or do drugs. Opportunities have presented themselves to me, but the fear of the unknown stops me from trying. Heck I don’t even use profanity. I am truly a goody two shoes. But I do go to the baths for the social aspect and the hope to find meaningless empty sex. I am just as guilty as the next person that is a lost soul. Though I hardly get any sex, but that is another story.

So if it is not the drugs or the sex it is the booze. Sometimes it is all three, a combination for two, or just one. Since I’ve already written about two of the three evils, this essay will be all about liquor. The fall down drunks I’ve encountered at the baths. Many times these drunks will arrive at the baths looking for a place to crash, as they have used up all their good will at the bars. Not being able to make it home, they head to the baths for a bed to sleep it off. Or they come to the baths to get sloshed even more, as some bathhouses feature a bar that serves liquor.

For bathhouse regulars they have seen their share of guys stumbling in a bathhouse, falling down, getting up again, and barely getting to their room. Just being completely and totally wasted. Just recently there was one guy who spent an entire week at the baths, drinking beer after beer after beer. Every 8 hours, re-upping his room and subsiding on nothing but beer. Right now I’m going to share two stories about two very different drunks. One I’m friendly with, and one I cared about very much.

Eli is 45, 5-11, blond, blue eyed with a nice furry chest. And a complete drunk. In fact I cannot recall a time when he wasn’t sloshed. Each and every time he comes to the baths he is completely wasted. Once as I was leaving the baths one day I saw him come in. 16 hours later I came back and Eli was still there. He had just renewed for another 8 hours, and was still smashed. For a full 24 hours Eli was spending his time at the baths. Not eating, not sleeping, and not even brushing his teeth. Just doing two things, drinking and having sex. Hopefully safe sex, which is what Eli tells me he always practices. But when you are wasted, who knows? Anyways this time Eli stopped by the baths because he was upset about something. I can’t remember what it was, but he needed to work it out. So he decided to get drunk and suck cock as an antidote. For the next 16 hours it was drink after drink after drink. In between all that drinking it was cock, ass, cock, ass. Eli has the looks and body to get laid anytime he wants. And people do take advantage of it. Sometimes Eli will sit in the lounge, beer in hand, with a smile on his face. Inebriated of course, his eyes totally glazed over. Some of the older, overweight, or even Asian guys will sit next to him and strike up a conversation. Then they take advantage of him, because they know he is drunk and will probably object only half-hardheartedly. The sad thing is that he allows himself to be taken advantage of. Maybe it is an ego thing, to be worshiped by all these guys that are not even at his level of looks. He once complained to me about his tummy, which was fine. It was flat, but a bit flabby, like an accordion when he sat down. Probably due to all the booze he drank.

Being a bit out of shape has spurred Eli to try to stall the aging process. He spends a lot getting botox. During a wild hook-up he broke his bed. It stayed broken for a very long time because he was spending all his extra money on botox. This was in preparation for a trip to Mexico. But does Eli spend time on the beaches, tour the local markets, or taste some of the cuisine? Nope, he heads straight to the local bathhouses and spends 24/7 to do the exact same thing. Get wasted and taste as many cocks as possible. He doesn’t even get a tan or even know what the weather is like. He stays indoors all the time to get wasted and taste cock, at both ends. He finds Latino guys pretty irresistible. And a blond tourist in their midst is hard to ignore. This is a trip he takes at least once a year. One time he missed his flight back home, by mere minutes. So he went back to the baths and lived it up for another night, using the excuse to his employer that he missed his flight.

See below to go to the next page of this story

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Source: http://www.bathhouseblues.com/gay-bathhouse-drunks/

[jonathanbelloblog]

Driving My 1950 Buick Special Deluxe: It’s Like 1950 All Over Again

Well, yes, a 1950 Buick Special Deluxe four-door sedan did come into my life recently. I confess at the outset it’s not my usual fare, what with its giant hunk of a straight-eight engine and ginormous chrome grille, as well as a cow-catcher so toothy that it proposes to serve—along with a pair of cannon-shaped overriders—as a first line of defense in cases of frontal attack. It does so in place, that is, of the actual huge bumper that resides behind and over which the chrome grille slats cascade for a protuberant effect. Not unlike a ’90s Oakland rapper with gold fronts and an overbite.

But as some of you will know, I’ve been laboring in the New York picture-car trade with my company Octane Film Cars and one of the shows we’ve been working on of late is The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, a comedy-drama about a late 1950s housewife who becomes a successful standup comedian. The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences awarded it five Emmys at the end of its first season, which it is a pretty good start. Though none was in the category of excellence in picture cars (which doesn’t exist, and for which we couldn’t take much of the credit, even if it did), the show has been lauded for its accurate—albeit highly stylized—depiction of the era. Cars play a big part in that and I’ve been honored to help out. But I’m not giving a speech here.

What I mean to talk about is this Buick. It was put to work immediately after purchase, spending three days in Tribeca the week before last, looking Fifties proud outside a “pop-up” version of the old, now defunct Stage Delicatessen. Parked next to a Ford Sunliner and a Checker cab on Lafayette Street south of Spring from Thursday through Saturday night, it was set decoration for a make-believe restaurant that served real food at real 1950s prices to the real 2018 public, with in-character actors not just portraying but serving as waiters and managers, with period décor, music, and menus, all assembled for the benefit of whoever could get in. It sold out immediately, of course. It was all done in the larger service of promoting the popular Amazon TV show in the experiential and hopefully viral pop-up way that seems unique to the 21st century. This is necessitated perhaps by the fact of so much of everything else being so basically fake. But I digress.

Getting to Tribeca meant a 75-mile round trip drive in a 68-year-old car I’d driven but once around the block before buying itand setting off for its first star turn in New York City. And in this context it is important to report that around the same time I was testing a $68,760 contemporary, a BMW 530e xDrive iPerformance, an all-wheel-drive plug-in hybrid with a turbocharged four-cylinder engine, whose specification does say something about the intervening years. Complemented by an electric motor and batteries good for 15 miles of all-electric operation, this latest 5 Series variant represented for me despite its newish tech at least a bit of a return to form for BMW, and made for quite the modern sedan offering. It thus made for a perfect comparison with a big-ass Buick that was more than respectable in its day, but now 68 years the 530e’s senior.

Riding on bias-ply tires and with a lump of iron up front that looks like it got hoisted out of a tugboat, the Buick was never going to hold a candle performance-wise to the BMW, which is not just a good handling car but a good handling BMW. Driving excitement was once a given with this brand famous for its cars’ dynamic abilities, but lately they’ve been accused with some justification of having misplaced the Ultimate Driving Machine plot. However, if the 530e is any indicator, nimbleness has commenced its return journey to its old Bavarian home and not a moment too soon.

The good feeling was confirmed on a 24-hour round-trip to Pittsburgh in the Bimmer following the delicatessen extravaganza with the Buick. After several frustrating trips this summer to my ancestral home to watch the Pirates drop games at their picturesque bandbox, PNC Park, we hoped for a change in fortune by this time visiting mighty Heinz Field, where the first-place Steelers hosted the Chargers of Los Angeles. Given our historic luck, we weren’t surprised when the home team favorites blew a big lead in the second half before proceeding to choke and lose in heartbreaking fashion in the final seconds. Not that witnessing such a defeat wasn’t tough, but the twin 400-mile trips that bookended the football game were surprisingly pleasant, with 31 mpg to report, comfy seats, and standout performance from the 248 horsepower and 310 lb-ft of torque the boosted BMW four offers. The sprint from 60 to 110 mph is particularly impressive for such a little-bitty 2.0-liter thing. Or so I am told.

Much to my surprise, the Buick had rolled down the road on its own shorter journeys with ease. Despite its old-school body-on-frame construction, there is a feeling of utter solidity that today’s buyers rarely experience in this antique, owing at least partly to sheetmetal thick enough to have come from a shipyard.

You can seat six in the Special Deluxe—and probably eight in a pinch—because of a front bench that’s double wide, the passenger room enhanced by the Buick’s column-mounted manual shifter and utter lack of seatbelts. Speaking of that column shifter, Buick calls its three-speed the Synchromesh, but a basic familiarity with double de-clutching doesn’t go unrewarded here. Nor do serious reserves of upper body strength, as the car’s recirculating-ball worm and nut steering is decidedly manual despite its seeming infinite number of turns lock-to-lock. On occasion, I thought I even detected road feel but the operative driving theme was more nautical.

All that said, you motor serenely down the roads and parkways in this Buick, basking in creamy, low-down torque that few of today’s machines exhibit. The distinct joys of this long-ago obsoleted type of engine are lost to time, but you discover them for yourself when blatzing around town behind an eight-in-line Buick, gently stabbing the accelerator in top gear to elicit a heightened version of the soothing blub-blub sound and smooth, steady forward motion. The 263.3-cubic-inch straight-eight has so much urge down low it’s beautiful. But then you try to go faster and it too quickly runs out of breath, like a former Olympic weightlifter with COPD.

There’s no mistaking my Buick for a modern ride. Not just because of the portholes on its front fenders, three on either side, or the three-piece rear windscreen. Heading up Manhattan’s FDR Drive on the way home from the Mrs. Maisel pop-up, the Buick was holding its own, but then it began to rain. Its vacuum-operated wipers—which tend to slow down at speed and under acceleration—did not spring to attention and a defroster that couldn’t fog a mirror when Jackie Robinson was playing in Brooklyn didn’t help. Hydraulic drum brakes—if they weren’t called Jet Puffed they should’ve been—were a workout that worked, but just barely. And things got even more old timey when the Buick was holding forth on some of the many sharp and less well paved corners the Drive has to offer. Here the Special Deluxe lived up to both its names. That is to say, as long-ago-departed auto writer Tom McCahill might have put it, it cornered with the sort of body roll and brake dive you’d expect to see in a drunk celebrant performing the watusi on a frigate crossing the Atlantic in a bad storm. It’s like 1950 all over again.

The post Driving My 1950 Buick Special Deluxe: It’s Like 1950 All Over Again appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[jesusvasser]

Driving My 1950 Buick Special Deluxe: It’s Like 1950 All Over Again

Well, yes, a 1950 Buick Special Deluxe four-door sedan did come into my life recently. I confess at the outset it’s not my usual fare, what with its giant hunk of a straight-eight engine and ginormous chrome grille, as well as a cow-catcher so toothy that it proposes to serve—along with a pair of cannon-shaped overriders—as a first line of defense in cases of frontal attack. It does so in place, that is, of the actual huge bumper that resides behind and over which the chrome grille slats cascade for a protuberant effect. Not unlike a ’90s Oakland rapper with gold fronts and an overbite.

But as some of you will know, I’ve been laboring in the New York picture-car trade with my company Octane Film Cars and one of the shows we’ve been working on of late is The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, a comedy-drama about a late 1950s housewife who becomes a successful standup comedian. The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences awarded it five Emmys at the end of its first season, which it is a pretty good start. Though none was in the category of excellence in picture cars (which doesn’t exist, and for which we couldn’t take much of the credit, even if it did), the show has been lauded for its accurate—albeit highly stylized—depiction of the era. Cars play a big part in that and I’ve been honored to help out. But I’m not giving a speech here.

What I mean to talk about is this Buick. It was put to work immediately after purchase, spending three days in Tribeca the week before last, looking Fifties proud outside a “pop-up” version of the old, now defunct Stage Delicatessen. Parked next to a Ford Sunliner and a Checker cab on Lafayette Street south of Spring from Thursday through Saturday night, it was set decoration for a make-believe restaurant that served real food at real 1950s prices to the real 2018 public, with in-character actors not just portraying but serving as waiters and managers, with period décor, music, and menus, all assembled for the benefit of whoever could get in. It sold out immediately, of course. It was all done in the larger service of promoting the popular Amazon TV show in the experiential and hopefully viral pop-up way that seems unique to the 21st century. This is necessitated perhaps by the fact of so much of everything else being so basically fake. But I digress.

Getting to Tribeca meant a 75-mile round trip drive in a 68-year-old car I’d driven but once around the block before buying itand setting off for its first star turn in New York City. And in this context it is important to report that around the same time I was testing a $68,760 contemporary, a BMW 530e xDrive iPerformance, an all-wheel-drive plug-in hybrid with a turbocharged four-cylinder engine, whose specification does say something about the intervening years. Complemented by an electric motor and batteries good for 15 miles of all-electric operation, this latest 5 Series variant represented for me despite its newish tech at least a bit of a return to form for BMW, and made for quite the modern sedan offering. It thus made for a perfect comparison with a big-ass Buick that was more than respectable in its day, but now 68 years the 530e’s senior.

Riding on bias-ply tires and with a lump of iron up front that looks like it got hoisted out of a tugboat, the Buick was never going to hold a candle performance-wise to the BMW, which is not just a good handling car but a good handling BMW. Driving excitement was once a given with this brand famous for its cars’ dynamic abilities, but lately they’ve been accused with some justification of having misplaced the Ultimate Driving Machine plot. However, if the 530e is any indicator, nimbleness has commenced its return journey to its old Bavarian home and not a moment too soon.

The good feeling was confirmed on a 24-hour round-trip to Pittsburgh in the Bimmer following the delicatessen extravaganza with the Buick. After several frustrating trips this summer to my ancestral home to watch the Pirates drop games at their picturesque bandbox, PNC Park, we hoped for a change in fortune by this time visiting mighty Heinz Field, where the first-place Steelers hosted the Chargers of Los Angeles. Given our historic luck, we weren’t surprised when the home team favorites blew a big lead in the second half before proceeding to choke and lose in heartbreaking fashion in the final seconds. Not that witnessing such a defeat wasn’t tough, but the twin 400-mile trips that bookended the football game were surprisingly pleasant, with 31 mpg to report, comfy seats, and standout performance from the 248 horsepower and 310 lb-ft of torque the boosted BMW four offers. The sprint from 60 to 110 mph is particularly impressive for such a little-bitty 2.0-liter thing. Or so I am told.

Much to my surprise, the Buick had rolled down the road on its own shorter journeys with ease. Despite its old-school body-on-frame construction, there is a feeling of utter solidity that today’s buyers rarely experience in this antique, owing at least partly to sheetmetal thick enough to have come from a shipyard.

You can seat six in the Special Deluxe—and probably eight in a pinch—because of a front bench that’s double wide, the passenger room enhanced by the Buick’s column-mounted manual shifter and utter lack of seatbelts. Speaking of that column shifter, Buick calls its three-speed the Synchromesh, but a basic familiarity with double de-clutching doesn’t go unrewarded here. Nor do serious reserves of upper body strength, as the car’s recirculating-ball worm and nut steering is decidedly manual despite its seeming infinite number of turns lock-to-lock. On occasion, I thought I even detected road feel but the operative driving theme was more nautical.

All that said, you motor serenely down the roads and parkways in this Buick, basking in creamy, low-down torque that few of today’s machines exhibit. The distinct joys of this long-ago obsoleted type of engine are lost to time, but you discover them for yourself when blatzing around town behind an eight-in-line Buick, gently stabbing the accelerator in top gear to elicit a heightened version of the soothing blub-blub sound and smooth, steady forward motion. The 263.3-cubic-inch straight-eight has so much urge down low it’s beautiful. But then you try to go faster and it too quickly runs out of breath, like a former Olympic weightlifter with COPD.

There’s no mistaking my Buick for a modern ride. Not just because of the portholes on its front fenders, three on either side, or the three-piece rear windscreen. Heading up Manhattan’s FDR Drive on the way home from the Mrs. Maisel pop-up, the Buick was holding its own, but then it began to rain. Its vacuum-operated wipers—which tend to slow down at speed and under acceleration—did not spring to attention and a defroster that couldn’t fog a mirror when Jackie Robinson was playing in Brooklyn didn’t help. Hydraulic drum brakes—if they weren’t called Jet Puffed they should’ve been—were a workout that worked, but just barely. And things got even more old timey when the Buick was holding forth on some of the many sharp and less well paved corners the Drive has to offer. Here the Special Deluxe lived up to both its names. That is to say, as long-ago-departed auto writer Tom McCahill might have put it, it cornered with the sort of body roll and brake dive you’d expect to see in a drunk celebrant performing the watusi on a frigate crossing the Atlantic in a bad storm. It’s like 1950 all over again.

The post Driving My 1950 Buick Special Deluxe: It’s Like 1950 All Over Again appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[eddiejpoplar]

Driving My 1950 Buick Special Deluxe: It’s Like 1950 All Over Again

Well, yes, a 1950 Buick Special Deluxe four-door sedan did come into my life recently. I confess at the outset it’s not my usual fare, what with its giant hunk of a straight-eight engine and ginormous chrome grille, as well as a cow-catcher so toothy that it proposes to serve—along with a pair of cannon-shaped overriders—as a first line of defense in cases of frontal attack. It does so in place, that is, of the actual huge bumper that resides behind and over which the chrome grille slats cascade for a protuberant effect. Not unlike a ’90s Oakland rapper with gold fronts and an overbite.

But as some of you will know, I’ve been laboring in the New York picture-car trade with my company Octane Film Cars and one of the shows we’ve been working on of late is The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, a comedy-drama about a late 1950s housewife who becomes a successful standup comedian. The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences awarded it five Emmys at the end of its first season, which it is a pretty good start. Though none was in the category of excellence in picture cars (which doesn’t exist, and for which we couldn’t take much of the credit, even if it did), the show has been lauded for its accurate—albeit highly stylized—depiction of the era. Cars play a big part in that and I’ve been honored to help out. But I’m not giving a speech here.

What I mean to talk about is this Buick. It was put to work immediately after purchase, spending three days in Tribeca the week before last, looking Fifties proud outside a “pop-up” version of the old, now defunct Stage Delicatessen. Parked next to a Ford Sunliner and a Checker cab on Lafayette Street south of Spring from Thursday through Saturday night, it was set decoration for a make-believe restaurant that served real food at real 1950s prices to the real 2018 public, with in-character actors not just portraying but serving as waiters and managers, with period décor, music, and menus, all assembled for the benefit of whoever could get in. It sold out immediately, of course. It was all done in the larger service of promoting the popular Amazon TV show in the experiential and hopefully viral pop-up way that seems unique to the 21st century. This is necessitated perhaps by the fact of so much of everything else being so basically fake. But I digress.

Getting to Tribeca meant a 75-mile round trip drive in a 68-year-old car I’d driven but once around the block before buying itand setting off for its first star turn in New York City. And in this context it is important to report that around the same time I was testing a $68,760 contemporary, a BMW 530e xDrive iPerformance, an all-wheel-drive plug-in hybrid with a turbocharged four-cylinder engine, whose specification does say something about the intervening years. Complemented by an electric motor and batteries good for 15 miles of all-electric operation, this latest 5 Series variant represented for me despite its newish tech at least a bit of a return to form for BMW, and made for quite the modern sedan offering. It thus made for a perfect comparison with a big-ass Buick that was more than respectable in its day, but now 68 years the 530e’s senior.

Riding on bias-ply tires and with a lump of iron up front that looks like it got hoisted out of a tugboat, the Buick was never going to hold a candle performance-wise to the BMW, which is not just a good handling car but a good handling BMW. Driving excitement was once a given with this brand famous for its cars’ dynamic abilities, but lately they’ve been accused with some justification of having misplaced the Ultimate Driving Machine plot. However, if the 530e is any indicator, nimbleness has commenced its return journey to its old Bavarian home and not a moment too soon.

The good feeling was confirmed on a 24-hour round-trip to Pittsburgh in the Bimmer following the delicatessen extravaganza with the Buick. After several frustrating trips this summer to my ancestral home to watch the Pirates drop games at their picturesque bandbox, PNC Park, we hoped for a change in fortune by this time visiting mighty Heinz Field, where the first-place Steelers hosted the Chargers of Los Angeles. Given our historic luck, we weren’t surprised when the home team favorites blew a big lead in the second half before proceeding to choke and lose in heartbreaking fashion in the final seconds. Not that witnessing such a defeat wasn’t tough, but the twin 400-mile trips that bookended the football game were surprisingly pleasant, with 31 mpg to report, comfy seats, and standout performance from the 248 horsepower and 310 lb-ft of torque the boosted BMW four offers. The sprint from 60 to 110 mph is particularly impressive for such a little-bitty 2.0-liter thing. Or so I am told.

Much to my surprise, the Buick had rolled down the road on its own shorter journeys with ease. Despite its old-school body-on-frame construction, there is a feeling of utter solidity that today’s buyers rarely experience in this antique, owing at least partly to sheetmetal thick enough to have come from a shipyard.

You can seat six in the Special Deluxe—and probably eight in a pinch—because of a front bench that’s double wide, the passenger room enhanced by the Buick’s column-mounted manual shifter and utter lack of seatbelts. Speaking of that column shifter, Buick calls its three-speed the Synchromesh, but a basic familiarity with double de-clutching doesn’t go unrewarded here. Nor do serious reserves of upper body strength, as the car’s recirculating-ball worm and nut steering is decidedly manual despite its seeming infinite number of turns lock-to-lock. On occasion, I thought I even detected road feel but the operative driving theme was more nautical.

All that said, you motor serenely down the roads and parkways in this Buick, basking in creamy, low-down torque that few of today’s machines exhibit. The distinct joys of this long-ago obsoleted type of engine are lost to time, but you discover them for yourself when blatzing around town behind an eight-in-line Buick, gently stabbing the accelerator in top gear to elicit a heightened version of the soothing blub-blub sound and smooth, steady forward motion. The 263.3-cubic-inch straight-eight has so much urge down low it’s beautiful. But then you try to go faster and it too quickly runs out of breath, like a former Olympic weightlifter with COPD.

There’s no mistaking my Buick for a modern ride. Not just because of the portholes on its front fenders, three on either side, or the three-piece rear windscreen. Heading up Manhattan’s FDR Drive on the way home from the Mrs. Maisel pop-up, the Buick was holding its own, but then it began to rain. Its vacuum-operated wipers—which tend to slow down at speed and under acceleration—did not spring to attention and a defroster that couldn’t fog a mirror when Jackie Robinson was playing in Brooklyn didn’t help. Hydraulic drum brakes—if they weren’t called Jet Puffed they should’ve been—were a workout that worked, but just barely. And things got even more old timey when the Buick was holding forth on some of the many sharp and less well paved corners the Drive has to offer. Here the Special Deluxe lived up to both its names. That is to say, as long-ago-departed auto writer Tom McCahill might have put it, it cornered with the sort of body roll and brake dive you’d expect to see in a drunk celebrant performing the watusi on a frigate crossing the Atlantic in a bad storm. It’s like 1950 all over again.

The post Driving My 1950 Buick Special Deluxe: It’s Like 1950 All Over Again appeared first on Automobile Magazine.

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[chalkboard-musings]

2017: A Lackluster Memoir

Prefacing this with: I don’t have a whole lot of sentiment towards this whole “new year” shebang. From the get-go, you have a bunch of societies writing their own version of a calendar year (I.e.- Sumerian, Athenian, Babylonian Cal.. you get the gist). In true narcissist fashion, when they realized their calculations were a bit skewed - they just sweep it under the woven rug and obliterate a month every couple of years*. Speaking of narcissists - we still abide by Julius Caesar logic of a “leap year”. But I digress, I just don’t really get all the pizzaz around balls dropping (in context of both NYE and Bar Mitzvahs) and blowing... never mind. Society is just funny, is all.

But I’ll force a little nostalgia because the oven’s pre-heating and last year’s resolution of “practicing patience” was, needless to say, a bust. I’m starting (after 6+ years of cyclical “new year, new you” cynicism) to hone on a trend of most of my send offs to the year in the rearview exuding a message of “good riddance, kiss my ass”. Which is forcing me to come to the abrasive realization that I’m the relatively fat kid on the track team that hits the 100M mark and think my eternal organs are going to implode, so I slow to a mosey and wait for the next gun to go off to try it over again. More literally - I’m hitting the May mark and throwing in the towel with a shit “better luck next year” attitude and spending the next 7+ months rolling around in a field of Twinkies, self-loathing, and existential dread. The “literal” segment was short lived.

So I ask myself, while the oven painstakingly hovers around 195 degrees, what is this complex that’s looming overhead year to year, and how do I make it tangible enough to bash over the head with a rock once and for all? (Could be literal or metaphorical, read it as you will). 

So without further ado, here are the non-resolutions - let’s call it a creed instead so I don’t feel like I’m succumbing:

1. Learn your sphere of influence - I admittedly spend < 7% of my energy/ brain waves here. The bulk of the pie chart is spent throwing duraflame onto the cynical fire. 

Ex. “I spent 8 minutes reading this Elite Daily click bait article so I can affirm I have the right to be sad about my generation”, 

“Genocide is bad, so I’m going to sit here with an eyebrow furrow and ponder on all the reasons humanity is cruel while staring at a blank wall for 24 minutes”. 

24 minutes elapse, my attention span taps out, I relax my scowl and go take a nap forgetting why I’m tired. If I’m not the poster child of the problem at hand, I’m at minimum exacerbating it. Getting my head out of my ass is a fair starting point.

2. Practice discipline - I want to change a lot of things. Bad habits, broken paradigms, broken cabinet doors in my apartment.. but (reference #1) it’s hard to see the bigger picture when your head is cozied up your butthole (it’s dark in here - let me pause to complain about that, too). I also, conveniently, violently resist practical solutions to problems. 

Ex. Lament: “Work is an inescapable black hole, mercilessly eating 85% of my waking hours” 

Practical suggestion: “Why don’t you turn off at 6, the world won’t burn down and it will be right where you left it the next a.m.” 

My solution: *roll up in fetal position and accept my fate*

There are these astoundingly simple, hyper logical ways to react to thoughts. Think involuntary responses like the knee reflex test: get knocked in the knee, violently hyperextend your knee kicking Dr. in face, blood everywhere, etc. 

It should, in theory, be that simple; miss someone? Make time for them. Want to not be Jabba the Hutt shaped? Eat mindfully. Want to learn Khoisan click language? Click away until your roommate punches you unconscious (if not unconscious after 1st punch, persevere - click some more). If shit matters to you, have the discipline to do something productive about it. And floss your damn teeth. (I am indeed, talking to myself, in case that was unclear).

3. Stop being a dick to yourself - it’s more or less irrelevant whether I deserve the abuse or have an affinity towards masochism. When you hit the point of: “I should give myself a swirly as a symbolic representation of my worth”, thinks get peculiarly dissociative (Hey.. I’m Dan). You lose your moxie when you forget you’re supposed to be in your own corner, and leave yourself pretty stripped down of defenses as a repercussion. 24 years of failed attempt at social interaction later, apparently it’s also not endearing to use your personality flaws as conversational segues. 

Don’t really intend to close this out with a “POW” because the oven is preheated and I signed this creed in blood.. I’m not sure of the sanitary implications of continuing to type. 

And so it goes.

*I don’t know if any of this is historically accurate but it helped the theme